


Abmarkan'es [Buoyancy]

by dianekepler, Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: The Waterverse [3]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alien Peen, M/M, Romance, Shotgun Wedding, Terrible Vulcan Euphemisms, The angry Andorian doctor punching her captain in the face, Vulcan Biology, Vulcan Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-17
Updated: 2009-09-17
Packaged: 2018-09-27 00:47:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9942719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianekepler/pseuds/dianekepler, https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: In the wake of having their visages and other important parts of their anatomy splashed across the subspace gossip rags, Spock and Starek find assistance in an unexpected place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, mouse over non-English text for translations. Most of it should work. I hope I didn't miss any words...

Morning has never been Starek’s favourite time of day, and this morning is even lower on his list than others he can remember. He’d been furious when the hail came in two days ago, then fascinated at the implications, and the two sort of settled into a vague irritability. Either way, he’s come. And he’s come alone, despite insistence from Stavret and the doctor that he take one of them along, for his health.

 

It’s good to be cautious, and he knows this well, but it’s also bad form to impose. He’s got a bag of tools, slung over his shoulder, and they should keep him safe enough — and if they don’t, he’s still got a beacon. He can be out in ten seconds, at any time.

Starek is voluntarily walking into a house full of Vulcans on a neutral world. He wonders if he’s taken leave of his senses.

As he approaches the entrance, a faint itching starts on the back of his hand, and by the time he taps the comm panel beside the door, it has spread up his arm, to his shoulder, and begun on the other side. _Out in ten seconds,_ he reminds himself, but he doesn’t suspect treachery, even as he pushes up the sleeve of his mid-century justaucorps to scratch at his wrist.

Starek waits, relatively stoic, even as the hives begin to spread to his face. He has never been to this world, before. How was he to know he’d be allergic to the grass?

Selov answers the door and gets about as far as "welcome" before he sees the reaction and hustles Starek inside.

"Oh dear, oh dear. This will not do, not at all. Come with me, quickly — and quietly."

He sneaks, actually sneaks, down the hall, bends his head to peer cautiously around a doorway, and then dashes by, motioning for Starek to do the same.

Upstairs, in the bathroom, Selov’s head and upper body have been engulfed by a cabinet. His robed posterior wiggles in a most un-Vulcan manner as he rummages.

"Where is it? We had another few here . . . this happens often enough that we keep a supply. The second High Council member was most displeased until we could medicate him properly. Even then, he was sure we’d done it on purpose. As if we’d engineered the flora specifically to — ah."

He backs out with a hypospray in one hand and a jar of salve in the other. "These should bring relief. We can never tell who will be affected. I am quite sorry."

Starek bows shallowly, visibly relieved, as he accepts the medication. Miraculously, he’s managed to avoid commenting on the older Vulcan’s shapely posterior, but twice damned if he hadn’t noticed that display.

" _Nash-veh itar-bosh_ ," he says quietly, pressing the hypospray to his own neck. Within moments, the itching begins to fade, and he dabs salve onto the spot or two that remain inflamed.

"Who were we attempting to avoid? I had thought my visit engineered to avoid all of the less-desirable elements that had invaded your home." His eyebrow arcs up and he licks the inner edge of his lip in relatively unsubtle amusement. There is no need to pretend to be Vulcan, here — especially, it seems, in front of this one of T’Nis’s fathers.

But Selov pointedly ignores the questions. " _Stariben vuhlkansu ha?_ " he raised a well-shaped eyebrow. " _Nam-tor ek’mesukh?_ "

" _Tsuri’le lafoshik na’vulkhansu. Vesht dungi nam-tor duhsu ri’stariben ish-veh._ " Starek smirks. " _Malatik’le – inam-nah-tor du nam-tor nash-veh duhsu – heh zahal-tor hafayat. _ But don’t worry about it. I get that all the time. The fool part, I mean." Starek shrugs and actually smiles. " _Nam-tor orensu t’gen-lis-tal heh kitausu. Nam-tor lakh ritsuri-wuh-set’ko t’nash-veh._ "

" _Rom-Ekon, thurai ra?_ " Selov mutters this, shaking his head. " _Kup’nah-tor i po Spock-kam vesht tevan-tor ni’lerash._ "

He twists his lips conspiratorially. "We did not wish for you to burn out your engines on the journey here, but . . . _dungau sashavau be’hai’la wuh’ashiv e’tum t’etek ha?_ "

Starek eyes Selov amusedly and predatorily. " _Svi’ashaya nash-veh – fai-tor du – ri’lok-fam. Nam-tor nash-veh yav-tor-yehat._ " He raises a suggestive eyebrow. "Another of your beautiful guests, you say? _Ma-kobat’es na’vaksurik-vel._ "

_This Vulcan is just too much_ , Starek thinks, pleasantly entertained to have something that isn’t an Orion to flirt with.

Selov finds that he actually remembers how to roll his eyes and does so, quite expressively. " _Goh zaha’uh, klon-lanet._ "

He pauses at the foot of the stairs and indicates the archway they snuck past earlier with a wave of his hand. "They are through there. Your appearance should interrupt their _Kal-toh_ match quite spectacularly, I think."

"Riots in the drawing room? You sound as Romulan as _I_ am." He twitches his nose in amusement, as if squaring up, before he steps into the room. " _Heh ugau du – ri’nam-tor lanet t’nash-veh if_ _nah-tor_ ," Starek mutters this, teasingly, with a wide grin at the obscene implication.

His next utterance is directed to those inside the room. "Don’t do that. You’ll lose the rook, next turn."

Tunor freezes with the chess piece still in his hand.

Spock jerks towards the sound of the voice. The half-conscious motion starts in his chest and travels, a microsecond later, to his head and other extremities. He rises. Stops. Looks at his hosts, with wide eyes, and then rushes forward to embrace Starek deeply.

" _Yeht-veh_ ," he whispers.

Selov saunters in, perches on the armrest of Tunor’s chair, and sighs. " _Nam-tor ni’petakov teretuhr. Mok nu-ri ha’kiv t’etek ha?_ "

His mate blinks. " _I’mok._ "

" _K’diwa!_ " Starek knows he’s holding Spock too tightly — the buttons on his coat are stabbing back into his own chest — but he can’t let go. He shudders like a fool, burying his face in Spock’s neck, as the preceding week comes rushing back like a warbird at warp nine.

" _T’nash-veh. Nam-tor du t’nash-veh – heh dungi-trasha du na’tevanu-yokulsu ri’va’ashiv. Worla._ " His voice is sharp, and he burns with self-loathing and protective rage, so strong a human could read it from fifteen feet away. It’s probably a good thing the room contains Vulcans, instead of Betazoids.

" _Worla vesht rok-tor na’gla-tor du va’ashiv._ " Spock’s eyes are closed, his hand curling protectively around the base of Starek’s skull. His pulse is once again far too fast and he breathes deeply to try to calm himself down. But this just has the effect of filling his nose with his Starek’s alluring scent. It is all Spock can do to avoid kissing him, open-mouthed, there and then.

He pulls back to look at Starek’s face. " _Nam-tor muhl ha? Saudau u’zungik vesht u’olau nash-veh za-gad._ "

" _Ha. Ik heb niet goed slapen._ " Starek stops, rubs his eye, and tries again. " _Vesht yuk-tor ri’yeht._ I think of you, and it keeps me up all night. … _Ri’sanoi’le._ "

Starek rubs his eye, again, and the façade of indestructibility crumbles away, leaving him looking a good deal more haggard and distracted than like the daring and reckless starship pirate he’d been moments earlier. "I’ve missed you."

Spock simply holds him again and broadcasts the mutual feeling into the nape of Starek’s neck, rubbing gently. He pulls back at last and turns to Tunor and Selov, who are watching them while deep in a finger embrace. " _Ki’nam-tor kasular t’etek maut-ves na`vitorau ish-latva._ "

Tunor answers in his solemn but kind manner. "As we said previously, it is the very least we can do. Whatever you would care to accomplish here, or however long you wish to stay, _nam-tor kelek t’etek t’du._ "

Selov’s face is positively glowing as he regards them. "May we offer you anything?"

Starek flashes a predatory grin at Selov, over Spock’s shoulder, twitches his nose mischievously, and lets the subject drop. It’s reflexive, really.

"A room?" He’s tired enough that he can’t quite check all his impulses — just the worst of the patently offensive ones. With a dismayed sound between a groan and a laugh, he lays his forehead against Spock’s shoulder. "Sorry. _Mijn mond is sneller dan mijn hersens, soms wel._ "

A pause… "Mouth moves faster than my brain, sometimes." The sentence is slow and measured.

Selov betrays his amusement with a little twitch in the two fingers holding those of his mate. "Of course. You must be quite fatigued. Spock please escort him."

With a nod to their hosts Spock, guides his _tal-kam_ towards the hallway, an arm about his shoulders.

" _Ri’of’kat’uh fan-vel ,_" Selov singsongs, teasingly after them.

Spock’s room is spare but comfortable. A tapestry and an ancient-looking _lirpa_ decorate the wall above the bed.

"At this rate, the only thing I’m going to break is my own heart," Starek mutters, following Spock into the room.

He slides around behind his Vulcan, moving with a fluidity born of exhaustion, turning into the attempt to face him, and nips at the skin over Spock’s mastoid process. As his arms wrap around Spock, one hand clutching a hip, the other a shoulder, he whispers, " _Var’uh nash-veh nam-tor nash-veh ri’duhik. Var’uh nash-veh vesht din-tor du nash-veh._ "

" _Gluvau du vesht ri’nam-tor hiyet ha?_ " He rubs at the same spot on Starek’s neck to remind him.  
" _Hi dungi ashiv-tor kuv istau du. Ki’din-tor du. U’nirak._ "

He guides Starek down to the bed. "Rest a while. I will stay until you fall asleep, if you wish."

" _Ti’uh k’nash-veh. Kal’uh nash-veh na’yuk-tor svi’kar t’du._ " Starek clings to Spock’s hands, dragging the man down with him. " _Ik wil het gevoel dat je warmte, geliefde._ Lie on me. Hold me. I think my hands are cold, but I can’t tell. _Nam-tor ozh t’nash-veh rikashan._ They’re all tingly."

He hadn’t actually slept in longer than he cared to admit, and what sleep he’d gotten had been in one and two hour units, in scattered places on the ship. He’d fallen asleep in his chair, on the bridge, shortly before arriving. This was no way to meet anyone, he knew, but he couldn’t forget, and the politics were becoming expansive and ridiculous. He is, in fact, on the verge of becoming openly neurotic, but here he is, with another chance to apologize. Perhaps this will end better. Perhaps it won’t end…

"I’ll be down an hour or two, I think. If I stay tired, I’ll be able to sleep again, when you do. _Istau nash-veh she-tor k’du svi’asal._ "

His hands are indeed very cold. Perhaps fatigue combined with a lack of proper nutrients. Spock warms them with his breath and with the friction of his own hands. Starek’s feet, with boots removed, are in a similar state, and so they get the same attention. When the temperature in Starek’s extremities has stabilized, Spock folds the blanket over him and secures it with his arms.

" _I’yuk’uh – tal-kam._ " he murmurs.

He waits until the Romulan’s breathing is slow and easy. But then he lingers, too thrilled by the sight of his partner to want to move far. Has it only been a week? It seems as though months have gone by.

It is with no small amount of reluctance that he eventually gets up to leave. The rational part of his mind is certain that Starek will still be here in an hour or two, but it takes some time to convince the rest of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Starek wakes to the smell of a bed not his own. This is the first sign that something is not quite right. It’s not any bed he knows, either and it takes a minute or six for him to remember he’s come to visit T’Nis’s fathers.

The rest drifts back slowly… the allergies, flirting with Selov — here he groans into the pillow. That was, no doubt, highly inappropriate. Still a tempting thought, though. And the old Vulcan seemed to be keeping up with the flirting pretty well.

And then, he remembers the rest, and sits bolt upright, calling out — "Spock!"

His lover emerges from the adjacent solarium carrying an actual paper book in his hand. Spock’s expression softens when he finds Starek sitting up and looking better for his nap."How do you feel?"

"Like I’ve had six pints of ale, laced with cocoa, and slept them off in a blender." Starek relaxes at the sight of his _taluhk-veh_. "Of course, this is also an improvement, which says more than I will on the subject."

He rubs his face, scratches his hair, and wipes his cheek off on his shoulder, before smiling up at Spock in rumpled amusement. "What are you reading?"

Spock seats himself on the bed. "A most interesting treatise; Selov has quite a collection. He is an historian and something of a sociologist as well. He specializes in the misfits of Vulcan society, and how various groups have withered or flourished, over the centuries."

He puts up a hand to smooth down the tufts of Starek’s hair, but like their owner, they refuse to be tamed.

"Misfits of Vulcan society." Starek looks dryly amused. "Why am I not surprised in the least. Did you _see_ the looks Selov was giving me?"

He just looks smug, now, happy to be an article of admiration — a desired sex object. It’s a rather fitting look.

"Would you like something to eat? You have slept through the midday meal, but Tunor informed me that some cold foods have been left out for us."

With a quick nip at Spock’s fingers, as they move away from his hair, Starek gives some thought to food. "Will you breakfast in bed with me, then? Let me feed you fruit, from my fingers, while you spoil me with stories of our hosts."

Spock looks happy at the idea of prolonging their seclusion. Necessity stole from them the chance for intimate conversation, and he has been craving it. Thus, he exits and soon returns with a collection of such breads, spreads, vegetables and fruit as were waiting for them.

This time it Spock who offers Starek a glass of water. It is accepted, with a significant look.

"I informed Selov that the rest period had improved you," Spo

ck mentions dryly. "His reply was that he couldn’t see how."

Starek’s nose twitches in amusement. "Then it’s obvious he hasn’t seen me at my best, isn’t it? You own me, you know. _Nash-veh t’du._ But, Selov looks like he’d be fun at parties. Under other circumstances, I’d have a meaningless one-night stand with that."

"You, on the other hand…" Here, he smiles wickedly, setting his glass on a the nightstand, taking the tray and setting it on the bed, near the foot, before dragging Spock down to him. "Twice a day, and three times on Sundays."

In some parts of his mind, it means more than ‘I love you’. It’s not fleeting and irrational; it’s a perfectly logical statement of desire, based firmly in the frame of things he can touch. He kisses Spock’s forehead, and then drags the tray up, to where they can reach it. With a mouthful of melon, he comes to a realisation.

"This is the first time this week I’ve eaten anything that didn’t have chocolate in it." He swallows and holds out a slice of _pla-savas_ to Spock.

Spock is not sure what to say to that, so he ignores it. Chocolate has unpleasant associations for him now, and it will be some time before he partakes of it again. He picks up a fork and tries to spear the piece of fruit, much to Starek’s amusement. It is a feeling that only grows when Spock’s initial attempts prove unsuccessful. But at last he manages the trick.

"How much news have you seen this week?"

"More than I wanted to. The Federation has been making interesting offers on public channels, as of late." Starek sighs, gnawing at a heel of bread, to occupy his mouth while he thinks. "I know that I have probably ruined your life, at least temporarily."

He tosses the bread back at the tray and rubs the side of his face. "Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you, at the time. I had a job to do, and it looks like I did it passably well. And for all that, I’m about as far up T’Nis’s documents of discommendation as your father." He pulls his knees up, leaning between them to grab some more melon. "I know better than to take jobs where my face ends up on subspace. It’ll be months before we can do any real work.

"And you…" He sighs again. "There’s nothing I can say to make this right. But, here you are, eating breakfast from my hand. I don’t deserve this, but I’m not going to object."

Starek takes a bite from the melon in his hand and holds the remainder out to Spock who accepts, but sets it down. Instead, he takes one of Starek’s hands in each of his, heedless of the juices.

" _Yeht-veh_ , we have been far apart of late. Your apologies," and he shakes his head, "only increase the distance."

Carefully, Spock orders his mind and then projects his feelings, so that Starek can understand how declarations of unworthiness from Starek actually pain Spock, who feels that the responsibility for the media frenzy lies mostly with himself. And with that admission, the dam bursts and Spock jerks back his hands to avoid flooding Starek’s consciousness with uselessly painful emotions.

"Had I beamed back immediately, I could have faced her. I could have prevented all of this. But I was selfish. I wanted to be with you." Spock withdraws into himself, arms crossed before him. "I rejected the teachings of Surak and I reap this misfortune for putting my own needs before those of the many." He is about to proceed with the relevant quote from Surak, but Starek sees where it’s going and interrupts him.

"The needs of the many? _Ri’tar’uh duh-vel._ You put your desires before your survival instincts. In this, it is all about you and me. There is no ‘many’ to put first. My good sense was hampered, and so was yours. I got us into this, and you didn’t get us out of it. It falls on us both — possibly moreso on me, for not going back down with one of Stavret’s EMP cannons, and taking the whole system out." Starek leans forward, over the platter of fruit, resting his forehead against Spock’s.

"This is not about faith. This is not about philosophy. This is about desire, will, and survival. We approached this, initially, with a flawed methodology. The flaws have led to complications. But in what part of the galaxy is ‘my life is complicated’ news?" He moves, slightly, pressing his lips against Spock’s forehead.

Spock leans into the kiss, but he is still tense.

Starek goes on. "This cannot be about blame. This needs to be about getting the goods and reasserting stability. In this case, I consider you to be the goods. Don’t take that wrong, it’s just where you fit into the pattern from my angle."

The Vulcan shakes his head. "The many have done what is just in attaching blame to me. My father, my people. Starfleet. The Federation. And yet again, I cannot help but be selfish. It is your forgiveness that I truly long for."

He pulls back to search Starek’s face. "Do you forgive me? For running _to_ your ship as well as from it?"

"I haven’t died of it, _k’diwa_ , though Merendith tells me I’m trying. I forgive you. I would have forgiven you, if I never saw your face again. It was a worthwhile experience."

Starek takes a deep breath, and his stomach makes a disgruntled sound. He ignores it.

"There are many who do not matter, in context. It is by no means their _dah-bath’pa-yehat tek’ik_. It is my business and yours. _Kuv shitau el’ru t’du vi’bish t’behsu t’du – bolau gish du nam-tor rakusal._ "

Spock breathes a sigh of gratitude. "Then, with your forgiveness, I regret nothing."

He retrieves the melon with his fingers and finishes it in a deliberate gesture of acceptance. It is very odd, this eating with the fingers, but not, he finds, unpleasant.

"On a related note, Tunor has asked me to inform you that he may able to be of service to you and your crew during this time. It is most fortunate that he is an aerospace engineer."

"My ship is a matter for another discussion, I think. I’m not awake enough to consider it at this time, and I am not certain that Stavret and D’nila will be too fond of having someone else in our systems, during the current circumstances." Starek uncoils, then, stripping off the coat he’d fallen asleep in, and tossing it over the footboard, as he stretches out, on his side.

"Your lack of regret is much more relevant to the moment." With a hum of satisfaction, he slips a slice of _yon-savas_ into his mouth, and licks the juice from his fingers, obscenely. Delicately lifting another slice, he offers it to Spock.

Spock takes it, slowly, his eyes on Starek’s mouth. "I had thought that, now that you are rested, we might profit from a discussion of . . . future actions."

"Indeed. Let’s work out some less flawed method, with which to indulge our madness." Starek’s lips quirk smugly, as he watches Spock watch him. He takes a grape, rolling it between his fingertips. "You say this as though you have some ideas to propose. I’ll hear you, first. No doubt you’ll give me ideas."

He holds the grape out, between his fingers, pulling it back as Spock reaches for it. "With your mouth, this time."

Spock eyes him knowingly. "Are you attempting to seduce me, Commander?"

He leans in, lips hovering near the grape in Starek’s fingers. He pauses there for a moment, considering the soft, green flesh, before he claims it, tucking it back into his cheek and letting his tongue caress the end of Starek’s index finger before he leans back, chews once, and swallows.

"Because your techniques are proving effective. However I do not see the logic in continuing our discussion if seduction is indeed your intent."

Starek hisses, his eyes fluttering shut, as Spock’s tongue lingers on the tip of his finger. "I’m talented in the arts of multitasking. I can both seduce you and talk strategy. If I couldn’t, I’m sure I would not be nearly so successful in my line of work." He piles a piece of bread with berries and dip, taking a bite, as he considers his words. "And if I can seduce you, talk strategy, and eat breakfast all at once, well, then it’s an afternoon put to good use."

He stuffs the rest of the bread and berry combination into his mouth, holding up a finger, to indicate he will continue, momentarily. Swallowing, he wipes a bit of juice from the corner of his mouth, with his thumb.

"And if I can eat breakfast off your naked body, while talking strategy, then it’s an afternoon I’ll be hard-pressed to better, for some time to come."


	3. Chapter 3

Spock is wide-eyed at the suggestion. He is about to respond, but a rapid series of taps at the door forestall this.

"Come."

It is Selov. "Kind of you to offer. But before that, you might wish to hear the news I bear." He flounces down onto the bed with them, eyes bright. "One of T’Nis’s students is interested in helping us."

Cocking an eyebrow in amusement, Starek offers Selov a grape, tucked between his first two fingers. It is, of course, idle flirtation, for he would be a twice-damned if he couldn’t keep up with a Vulcan twice his age.

"You will understand, of course, when I say that I am a man of little trust, and right now your daughter’s disciples are not terribly high on my list."

Selov takes the grape and passes it, with a sly look, to Spock. "I had anticipated that. Let us hear what she has to say and then you can decide."

He flips on the holoscreen and the image crystallizes into Amber, looking small in an oversized T-shirt and cardigan.

"Thank you for holding, Amber. I have both of them here now."

Her first words are rueful. "Spock, Starek . . . . God, I’m so unbelievably sorry."

Starek’s chin lifts, and his shoulders square. Even lying on his side, half-dressed, he cuts an imposing figure.

"Your contrition is irrelevant." His hand closes possessively around Spock’s wrist. "Say what you have called to say, and we will consider it."

She is resolute. "Okay. My point is that I fucked up. Insanely. And it took this seven-ring media circus to show me, which is shitty, because I should’ve just known.

Amber pauses. Swallows. "You have every right to jail me or fry me or make me into cat food. But I want to help you."

"My own line of work disinclines me to take revenge, at this time, in these circumstances. That is by no means a guarantee in any other circumstances." Starek’s words are measured and crisp. "How exactly do you intend to ‘ _help_ ‘ us?"

Politics, he reminds himself, is that game in which phasering your opponents under the negotiating table is frowned upon. Of course, at the moment, he has no opponents — directly. He is, however, caught in the middle of a shitstorm spanning two empires that revolves around the man who, love aside, has the routing codes to hail and track his ship.

"I have the tapes, audio and everything. If you want, I can release the parts that show Spock didn’t know you were Romulan, or that once you melded, it was okay between you. That was beautiful, by the way," she throws up a hand and then rubs her eye with it, looking away from the camera. "Not like you care what I think but, I’m just saying."

"You will give me the data from that night. Every frame in which I appear. And then, you will destroy the local copies." Starek knows the logs must be destroyed, before a cleaner image of his face becomes public.

"You must understand," he addresses Amber, again, "my stake in this has always been business. If more data is to be released, I will decide what it is, for my own sake."

He rubs his thumb across the back of Spock’s knuckles, hoping to convey that he can only tell part of the truth, or he risks putting them both in more danger.

"On behalf of my _katravahsu_ , I must ask if the mind meld footage has been released in any way." If that had gotten out, Spock was probably no longer safe from further and more in-depth inquiries into Starek’s history and whereabouts. This had the potential to get bigger and nastier, by quite a bit.

She shakes her head emphatically. "No, all that got released was what was on the news. I’m going to open the systems. You can download everything and wipe it yourself. Nobody’s here but me, anyway. T’Nis is gone to this spa kind of thing. Then she’s getting on board the liner you booked her on, Mr. Selov. Normally I would’ve gone except we had a fight. More than one, actually, and –"

She breaks off, rubbing at her nose. "Never mind."

"Starek. Spock. I don’t know if you’ll ever believe me but I really am sorry."

Starek squirms, reaching into his pants pocket, and comes out with his communicator. "Starek to bridge. Throw _sa-kai_ out of bed for me. I’m going to need him to do something fast and sneaky momentarily."

"Yes, _Riov_ ," the female voice crackles back.

"We can take care of this problem. Thank you for allowing us to do so." Starek’s face softens, but only slightly. "You were very close to her, weren’t you? I believe I said it when you were not in the room, but I will say it again, for you to hear. You are too involved in what others wish of you, and not nearly involved enough in yourself. It’ll kill you, if you don’t get that under control."

Amber huffs out her breath all at once. Her voice is shaky. "Yeah. I’ll, uh, think about that."

She scratches the back of her head and then both hands are typing. "Here. You should have access now."

" _Sa-kai_ , I need you to do a pillage and burn for me," Starek says to the communicator, rattling out a list of numbers, times, and routing codes. "And, yes, you can watch the footage, if you must."

"I’d rather not, if it’s all the same, _saj’dinam_. Your pet Orion is giving me looks, though."

"If she’s threatening you, you can let her at it. She was in the transporter room. She’s already seen his bare ass and mine." Starek sighs. D’nila might finally stop asking for details. Maybe. Or, this would just make her entirely incorrigible. "Time?"

"It’s slow, from this far out, with our equipment. Can we have two hours?"

Starek looks up at the screen. "Two hours."

Amber shrugs, looking tired. "Take however long. Like I said, it’s just me here now. Anything else you need, before I head back to the city?"

"I ask nothing more of you." Starek glances away from the screen. "Spock? Any other concerns?"

Spock shakes his head. "Be well, Amber."

Selov looks at both of them and then returns to the holo. "Thank you, _pi’haurok_. You may communicate further with Tunor or I, should you have the need."

"I don’t think I will, but thanks." She makes the _ta’al_ , but without looking at any of them, before vanishing.

"She will not live long, as she is. I almost pity her." Starek shakes his head, reaching out to set the communicator on the nightstand. He is still and contemplative for a long moment, oddly serious, before reaching into his pocket, again, and drawing out a small, jewelled box which he hands to Selov, with a smirk.

"My thanks. I do not think I will be needing it, this evening, but I am more than certain you and yours will be able to find a use for it." He pauses for emphasis, slyly raising an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you’ve found better things to do with your time."

The container — a replica of an old snuffbox — is filled with two ounces of powdered cocoa.

"One never knows one when will need to be… less than perfectly engaged with the consensual reality of a situation. Many things are more entertaining once you get the brackets off."

Selov palms the little box, checks its contents, and sequesters it in a pocket of his outermost robe. "Such a fine gift for so trivial a favor. One must wonder what your reaction will be once you get a look at Tunor’s manifest of ship’s parts."

"You mistake me, on the subject of the gift. It is for the favour you do not know you have done me." Starek shakes his head — Merendith had been unable to get him to lay off the chocolate, all week. "Or, perhaps you do — you are rather observant."

The older Vulcan turns to Spock. "As we are on the subject of interesting reactions, I also have news from the homeworld. A number of my contacts in _K’lan-ne_ — Starek, I am not sure whether you are familiar with this city of misfits, but it contains a fair number of bonded pairs who have taken less drastic steps than Tunor and I. Regardless, they have access to news sources which we do not and they are able to report more accurately on the, dare I say mood of the populace in the less isolated cities of _T’Khasi_. Apparently, opinion on the matter involving yourselves has fragmented several times.

Those who see Starek’s heritage as the greatest problem are now in the minority. Last night, a special episode of Current Sociological Trends showed that a great many Vulcans cannot tell the difference between the races, even," and he waggles an eyebrow, "when unclothed. I do wonder what prompted that little part of the experiment."

He spears a vegetable stick and takes a bite before continuing. "Also, the debate about Vulcans who choose to live as their nature demands has taken center stage. A vocal minority is even calling for the repatriation of Tunor and myself."

The lean, refined Vulcan snorts. "Of course, that would mean the High Council would have to admit they were wrong to begin with."

Starek leans back. "As to those of your people who are unable to differentiate between _Thaessu_ and _Rihannsu_ , it should be noted that there are only two rather minor points that separate me from such as you, physically, and one of them is strictly an affectation. My skin is of a shade that grows less obvious, with solar exposure — not that it’s as obvious as that of those who have … less pure heritage, than I — and my body is hairless from the eyebrows down, when I choose to engage in traditional bathing practices. _Lagga_ oil and a straight razor don’t leave much behind." He reaches out and taps Spock’s nose. "I must say, I find this particular specimen startlingly fluffy for a race that arose on a desert world. Physiologically illogical."

"Although, I am curious as to the other Romulans who could be found to bare all for these experiments. Are there, truly, so many defectors? And more than that, are there so many defectors with as little modesty as I?" He rolled his eyes. "Unless, of course, these trends stem merely from images of myself, taken in dim light, in which case, yes, I am indistinguishable from the genuine article. He’ll tell you, won’t you, _taluhk-veh_?"

Spock seems taken aback by the nose tap as well as the appellation. _Fluffy_?

Ignoring Spock’s expression and the snarling of his stomach, the commander looks momentarily contemplative. "If they’re calling for your repatriation, it won’t be long before they’re calling for mine. A pity my world is so antagonistic to the idea of peace, in general, but after the way we left …" He shrugs, and eats some more _pla-savas_ , licking the juice from his fingertips, temptingly.

"I would answer your question about the Romulans," Selov replies, taking in Starek’s pornographic display. "Except I believe that perhaps you would rather be left to yourselves, just now."

"I have commanded my ship, in the nude. I have engaged in intercourse while negotiating for a contract — and it got me the contract, I might add. Unless you’re particularly disturbed by my demonstrations, I see no reason why you shouldn’t talk and enjoy them, simultaneously. As I was telling Spock –" Starek pops a grape into the air with his thumb and catches it in his mouth. "– I am a master of multitasking, and I am here to be enjoyed, while I strategise."

He rubs his fingertip against Spock’s nose. "Unless, of course, you’d like me to get back to my earlier suggestions on the methodology of breakfast…"

"I object to being used as a platter, _yeht-veh_ ," Spock says quietly.

Selov’s eyes widen and he nearly leaps off the bed. "Yes, well then, when you are suitably rested and," he swallows, "recovered, feel free to join us at any time."

He waggles the fingers of one hand at the pair and breezes out the door. At the bottom of the stairs, he turns pointedly in the direction of Tunor’s workroom, suffused with an urgency he has not felt in some time, perhaps even since their most recent cycle.

Back upstairs, Spock turns to Starek with a quizzical look. "You find my body hair illogical?"

"Patently illogical, in the context of insulation on a warm-blooded creature in a desert environment. On the other hand, I strongly approve of the feel of it against my skin." Starek licks his lips and smiles wickedly, before heaping berries and dip onto another piece of bread.

"And why do you object to being used as a platter?" He asks, around a mouthful. "Do you truly find the idea of my tongue chasing drops of _kaasa_ juice across your skin so appalling? Does the idea that my breakfast might taste better with a hint of your skin behind it truly upset you?"

"It is not upsetting. It is, however, a good deal more illogical than body hair on a desert dweller," Spock lobs this back evenly and then reclines, satisfied with himself.

"Hmm. And I thought you found my illogical ideas pleasurable." Starek’s face is bland, his voice weighted and teasing. "I suppose I will have to make do with a slightly less delicious breakfast."

"Another of our misunderstandings," Spock takes a moment to stretch with his eyes closed. "Your health and well-being are important to me; therefore, logic dictates that I provide as few distractions as possible as you eat your fill."

At this point, Starek doesn’t even care. He’s starting to sober up, for the first time in a week, and his body is demanding that he put food into it _at once_. It isn’t that he hasn’t been eating, it’s just that he hasn’t been sleeping, either, and one can only maintain one of those two things at a time.

He picks up a thick slice of some sort of vegetable and scoops a dip he doesn’t recognise onto it. There’s a pause after he bites into it, then a nearly sexual sound of pleasure. "I don’t know what this is, but it’s fantastic."

Spock resolutely guides his mind away from where Starek’s presyllabic utterance has put it. Conversation might distract the Romulan from making any further sounds of that nature, so he tries it.

"The opinions now being heard on Vulcan regarding homosexuality," he waves a hand at the volume of history on the table, "have not been mentioned in some time. How is it on your homeworld, _tal-kam_?"

"On _ch’Rihan_? I don’t know at all what the current opinions are, and I’m not really in a position to go home and ask." He is creating a very thick sandwich, as he speaks. "In my town, in the past, it was not frowned upon. Well, not entirely — folks would give you a hard time about it, over the ale they just bought you.

"Sex is a very different thing, for a _Rihanha_. It is an act of relaxation and a tool for negotiation and espionage. It doesn’t really matter who you’re doing it with, as long as they’re not _Thaessu_ , and you’re not telling them the Empire’s secrets. Love is something else, entirely. That’s what you keep for the people you trust your life to."

He holds up one finger, pausing the conversation as he demolishes part of the sandwich, swiftly.

" _Ilhra hwi ih draed arham._ Just in case you hadn’t noticed."

Spock smiles, slowly. "I had noticed, _ashayam_."

Starek is licking gobs of thick, spiced dip from where they dripped between his knuckles. "I suspect you will forgive me my manners, on the basis of my delectably obscene methods? This is, for a change, not _pain au chocolat_ , and I think my system is quite thrilled with the idea of actual nutrients."

He looks up, catching Spock’s eye. "I’ve spent the last week extraordinarily drunk, trying to ignore reality, to the best of my ability. The triumph of a lifetime turned into a vivid nightmare, and … I am ashamed to say that, for once, I couldn’t handle it. I think I prefer the usual stabbing and shooting sorts of nightmares. They’re much easier to recover from."

The rest of the sandwich goes and Starek pauses. "I should stop eating so quickly. Perhaps it would be better if you _did_ distract me…"

Spock removes the platter to the nightstand, hands Starek his glass of water, and then leans back into the pillows. "And how might I accomplish that?" There is an edge to his voice now, honed by need.

"However you see fit, _k’diwa_."

Starek tips his head far back, nearly pouring the water down his sleekly displayed throat, as he swallows reflexively, every half-second until the glass is empty. Righting himself, he holds the glass out, balanced between the very tips of his fingers, and flicks his tongue twice, drying the corners of his mouth. The entire display is an offer and the acceptance of an offer, as much as anything involving the necessity of water.

"I am here for your pleasure, after all."

"Then come here." Spock beckons with a single finger, although just the look in his eyes might have been enough. Starek, for once, follows directions. He comes to lie in the warm place made by Spock’s chest and arms, which close to enfold him completely.

" _Ki’din-tor du k’kusut lo’uk, yeht-veh. Ki’fai-tor worla k’oh-nar ni’mau._ "


	4. Chapter 4

For a time it is enough to simply luxuriate in Starek’s scent by burying his nose in the younger man’s hair. Starek purrs, wrapping his leg around Spock’s hip. Pushing Spock’s chin up, with his nose, he licks the Vulcan’s neck, slowly.

" _Nash-veh t’du. Tu t’nash-veh. Nam-tor etek kaunshuk. Ovsoh du nash-veh. Nam-tor du nel-dath t’nash-veh._ "

" _Nel-dath t’du? Ri’kup’tor du kauk fi’shitau sai-vel._ " Spock teases, tapping Starek on the nose in turn. He trails finger kisses along Starek’s hairline and ear, beginning with the lobe and then working his way up with index, middle, and thumb.

" _Hi ma ri’istaya na’fnau-tor du. Ma du mau na’saven-tor nash-veh._ " Starek is delightfully appealing in the light of this orange sun. It is pleasantly reminiscent of a desert sunset back home, although here there are leaves on the trees, making designs on the bed as the branches bend in the wind.

"Speaking of wearing clothes. I wear them just fine, when I have to. I even wear them to put ideas in your head about taking them off of me." Starek nudges Spock’s chin up, again, biting gently, just beneath it. "Just don’t tear them, this time, please? I like this shirt…"

He arches against Spock, rolling his hips. And this is when he realises that his pants are far too tight, as they are cut to fit him _retracted_. Starek speculates on the fine line between delicious and hideously uncomfortable, as he feels his body failing to stretch the snug leather pants. Right now, being unable to unsheathe is incredibly delicious, and as he wonders how long that will last, he pulls Spock’s hand to the front of his pants.

"Tell me what you don’t feel — no, don’t open them. I think I like this."

When the hand goes where it’s directed, it sends a delighted shiver through Spock. He can feel the swelling and the heat through the fine leather. He trails kisses there, but is very soon unable to help himself from just cupping Starek and rolling him over, pulsing with his hand as he sinks his teeth into the side of Starek’s neck.

" _K’hat’n’dlawa_. You inflame me."

Spock fumbles left-handed at the buttons of Starek’s shirt, unwilling to move his palm and gently rolling fingers even for a moment. He manages the fastenings eventually, and presses a hot line of human kisses along the strip of exposed skin before nipping at the smooth flesh around Starek’s navel. Then he spreads the shirt wider, helping Starek off with it, trailing a searing tongue across the planes of his shoulders and clavicle.

Disengaging only long enough to shrug off his Vulcan robe, Spock seats himself with his back against the headboard, drawing Starek closer so that his bare back is up against the fine material of Spock’s tunic — Tunor’s, actually — and Spock can let one of his hands roam across Starek’s chest, while the other is fastened to that imprisoned sweetness between his legs. At the same time he licks along Starek’s trapezius to the fleshy spot near his neck and sucks, hot and hard, with flutterings of his eager tongue.

Starek is shivering uncontrollably, by this point, twisting and writhing in Spock’s hands. His mind stutters terribly, between thoughts, and few, if any, make it out of his mouth, entire.

" _K’diwa …_" he groans, tipping his head back to rest on Spock’s shoulder. " _Weht… Ha —_ " The rest of the sentence is lost to a desperate sound as Starek’s eyes roll back in his head.

" _Lerakhova’uh weh-wufik ,_" he pants, the light green flush that began on his cheeks spreading and deepening down his neck and across his chest. The sounds coming from his mouth would seem to be agony, if he were not begging for more, between them. " _Ha! Nash-veh t’du! Is’uh nash-veh!_ "

Spock groans and slips his down inside those pants so he may clamp down harder on Starek’s burning flesh. He rocks the hand now, the tight leather sending torrents of feeling through his sensitive fingers and knuckles as his palm is coated with just a trickle of Starek’s lubrication. Spock is feeling limited by his own pants now, and he shoves his hips against Starek’s to emphasize the point.

Meanwhile, Spock’s other hand is pinning one of Starek’s, stroking the metacarpals, pushing the palm into Starek’s thigh. But that is no longer enough. He wants those fingers in his mouth now, so he pushes them there, greedily consuming first one, then two.

Starek can’t even beg, any more. He’s been rendered incoherent by the force of Spock’s lust and the delectable strain of his own pleasure. Wildly desperate sounds spill from his mouth — keening, groaning, and whimpering — as he grinds his trapped flesh against Spock’s hand, feeling damp squishes as more of his essence is pressed out against Spock’s palm. He arches, body tensing, but there is no release, and with a hollow sound of frustration, he rocks back, grinding against the heat in Spock’s pants.

" _T’du. Ek t’nash-veh._ "

" _Nuh’mau_ ," Spock moans at the sweet torture, extricating his hand and shoving Starek lustily aside in one motion. He climbs out, drops down into kneel on the bed, tugs Starek down towards him, and then works at the fastening to the Romulan’s pants with shaking, slick fingers.

He yanks down the zipper — a good call, given the rapidity and force with which Starek finally unsheathes — and then wastes no time getting that emerald cock between his lips, right where he’s wanted it all week — among other places.He moans, almost sobbing around Starek in the intensity of his need.

As for his tunic and _sav’el_ , Spock interrupts his eager sucking only long to yank them up over his head. Then he covers Starek, drags at those damnably tight pants for a moment, gives up, and just releases his own pounding flesh from its confines. Then he resumes.

Starek actually shouts as Spock’s mouth closes around him again. It’s so good. So much, so fast. He writhes, twisting the sheets in his hands as he struggles to retain control. The world swims in his vision, dizzying and unimportant. He howls, digging his nails into his palms, but the pain just makes everything a little brighter.

He’s so close, and fighting it so carefully — he could clamp down and turn it off, but that would ruin the whole experience. He’d have no further pleasure in the act, but what he could take from Spock. So, he claws at the blankets, at his own shoulders, at Spock’s hands. He squeezes the tip of Spock’s ear, for just a moment, before his fingers fail him, again.

" _Fan-nuk du aitlu s’nash-veh. Aisha nash-veh shetau t’du. Ulida’uh nash-veh! Ma’uh nash-veh!_ "

" _Dungi ulidau du._ " Spock snarls, his lips trailing wetness. " _Sarlah’uh na’nash-veh. Lu sarlah du – shei’uh ahm t’nash-veh heh fai’uh du dungi sak-tor na’nash-veh – thurai. Dungi ma ek’t’du. Dungi nam-tor t’nash-veh._ "

Spock goes back to work, his thumbs digging into the tender skin just inside Starek’s hipbones. Their past melds have made the Vulcan an even quicker study than usual and there is no hesitation this time, and no teeth, just the strong, pistoning motion of his neck and the groans deep in his throat where he pauses, at times, to let Starek feel the full heat of him.

The first scream is wordless — Starek tears at his own skin, nails digging into his chest, leaving bright green marks behind, as he drags them across his flesh, head thrown back in excruciating rapture. Shuddering and clutching at everything he can reach, he rolls his hips, thrusting into that hot mouth.

" _Ha! Iyi! Theah!_ " He starts to groan in desperation, and cuts himself off with a gasp. "Spock! Yes, _eit’jae tu!_ Now! _Ha!_ Spock!"

And the rest of his words are merely the incomprehensible rattlings of a being who has just poured his brain out the end of his cock.

Satisfied for the moment, Spock tilts his head back, literally savoring the taste of his victory. Then he swallows, the ripple of his throat clearly visible, before directing his hooded gaze at Starek and passing his tongue out over his lips.

" _Neimayo – ashal-veh. Heh i vathru._ "

Without waiting for Starek’s reaction, he works at inching those tight leather pants down his legs. It’s something of a shame to divest him of this garment, but his lover’s smooth thighs and muscular calves more than make up for it.

Still half clothed, he drops his hips between Starek’s legs and nudges at his opening. " _Pok na’nash-veh? Il dungau-dator du?_ "

Starek just stares, for a long moment, eyes glazed. "Nnngh." He pats his face with one hand, as if making certain it’s where he left it, before the hand presses harder, rubbing the sense back into his head. "What? _Ha._ Whatever. _Fan-vel. Kanok-vei._ " He can feel his own lubrication mixed with Spock’s saliva running down his flesh, and he knows he’s lying in a puddle. But Starek does not give a left-handed fuck-dumpster’s uncle. That has absolutely no relevance to the current state of things, nor does anything else, really.

However, there was a question, and it seemed like an honest one.

"Oh, _ha, ek t’du_. Don’t worry about it. When I say you can’t break me, like that, _ri’kha-wal-tor._ " He squirms expectantly. " _Than ish-veh._ Do it before I start to come down…"

Spock lowers his gaze, positions himself, and pushes in. The slickness, both running down from above and coating him, makes it easy to slide home, inch by glorious inch. However, once he’s there, a tremendous groan leaks out of him and with it, his strength. He leans into Starek, almost collapsing onto him, before pressing a light kiss, their first shared one of the afternoon, to Starek’s mouth and beginning to move.

" _Tra_ ," he soothes, breathing against Starek’s shoulder. " _I ma du – yeht-veh. I ma du._ "

He is in less of a hurry now, perhaps because his position is secure. Quite secure — and hot, and tight. He can feel Starek clenching and rolling his hips, rocking him with a sweet rhythm that is simultaneously familiar and new. He tries teasing, with an inward snap of the hips and a slow retreat and finds the reaction favorable.

It’s all too much sensation, and Starek fails to process most of it, just sort of coasting on the post-orgasmic glow and the wonderful heat filling him. He’s absolutely certain that he’s making sound, but he has no idea what sounds they are, or if they’re anything like words.

It’s good, it’s warm, it’s gentle. And, yet, he’s still so tight that every motion feels like his organs are going to follow Spock out of his body. It’s almost perfect. This is what he wanted. He belongs here.

" _Ha_ … Spock… _k’diwa_ …"

His hands still tingle, as he strokes Spock’s back, catching his elbows on his own raised knees. He hasn’t been this clumsy in years. He tips his head back and turns it, slightly, offering.

That’s the last piece. That’s the one he misses most.

" _Katela’uh k’nash-veh._ "

" _Khio’ri t’nash-veh ,_" Spock whispers and keeps murmuring it in time with his slow but uncompromising thrusts. " _Kup hafau etek ish-kro’el ek’wak ha? Kwon-sum? Goh tu heh nash-veh? Teretuhr . . ._ "

Starek’s cheeks and are now the targets of Spock’s finger-kisses, and his brows, so sweetly lifted at the outer corners. " _Narta’uh nash-veh. Dungi nam-tor ak i._ "

" _Nem’uh nash-veh. Ek t’nash-veh t’du. Kwon-sum heh ek’wak ,_" Starek breathes.

He knows it’s not safe. He knows it’s completely insane. He knows he might be endangering seven other people he cares about, but this is trust. This is the single most un-Romulan action he’s ever taken. He does not believe Spock will see those things, intentionally. He does not believe he will be betrayed, even if he does sorely have it coming, after last time…

" _Tel’uh k’nash-veh. Taluhk nash-veh k’dular. Caire arhem. Jol arhem hwi._ "

Spock stills, his lips parted with the force of his breathing and the enormity of what Starek has just asked of him. There is no ambiguity now. His lover has made it plain in both their mother tongues.

A thousand thoughts and feelings crystallize inside Spock’s mind and then shatter, spinning outwards into a maelstrom of confusion. Can they? Should they? Will it save them? Will they be doubly cursed? He stares deep into Starek’s eyes, remembering how it was to slip into his mind, to merge with that beautiful soul. To have that a part of him always — does he dare? Would it be the height of selfishness? Or would it be the beginning of a union that has waited millennia?

Yet in the end, it is none of those things that moves him. Compared to the certainty in his heart and hands, all other considerations pale — even those for his intended bride and his ubiquitous father. What Starek asks for himself and Spock is right. He knows it.

" _Yeht-veh. Nufai nash-veh nash-shal. Nar-tor du?_ "

Starek registers first that Spock has stopped thrusting. He stares up in vacant horror. "Blighted verdigris. Yes, I love you. Yes, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, _worla heh ek’wak estuhl heh vesht estuhl_. But, blighted buggering verdigris, don’t stop!"

Spock can’t help himself. He puts his head down onto Starek and gives into silent laughter, remembering to push now and again so that the encounter stops short of dissolving into farce. The realization that they are going to do this, here on these rucked and tangled sheets, with his pants and boots still on — it is staggering. But for the beauty which suffuses and surrounds them it would be profane.

At last Spock recovers, his rhythm smooth, even, and now even slower than before. With his weight on his elbows he hooks his index and middle fingers around those on Starek’s opposite hand, bringing them in for a kiss as his other hand alights on the meld points.

Starek’s mind is so open that entering is as effortless as drawing aside a veil. The chaos is so warm and familiar, that even now, before the final steps,it is comfortable than any consciousness he has ever touched before. Uppermost are repeated urgings to go faster, but Spock refuses. Some small facet of solemnity _will_ mark this occasion.

" _Kashkau_ ," he sends into Starek’s mind and both of them repeat the words. " _Wuhkuh et teretuhr. Estuhn wi ri estuhn. K’wuhli wi ri k’wuhli._ "

All at once, Starek feels a third consciousness, physically removed, yet psychically very close. It is muddled, confused, and then at once as livid as anything he has ever known. He shrinks from it, towards the part that is Spock who comforts him and holds the other at bay.

" _I sahris_ ," Spock directs and again they speak together. " _Ra etek tor tev-tor s’wak t’Palikaya. Nam-tor u’khaf-spol t’etek – nam-tor u’katra t’etek – nam-tor u’sha’yut._ "

When the formula is complete, Spock gathers himself and pushes that final distance to the core of Starek’s being. He enters, like a stream into a pool, feeding, dissolving, feeling himself and not-himself becoming less and less distinct until, at last, they are joined forever.

In the resulting splendor, the third consciousness wavers and fades.


	5. Chapter 5

Starek watches the … woman(!?) fade away, her fury passing away with her.

"She was your…" He feels slightly ill, but the story unfolds before him, and he understands. It is so much easier than asking for an explanation, to just see what is needed, instead.

He knows the woman’s name was T’Pring. He knows their match was not by choice on either of their parts. He hopes she can be happy, now that she is free. There is a pause in which he wonders if he has just sentenced her to death. Vulcans, after all, still fall victim to pon farr…

" _Kanok-vei heh ri-vel. Hwiiy arhva. Arhem ihr hwi._ " Slowly, Starek learns to speak with his mind, his lips moving less as the words continue. " _Worla ma vesht nam-tor nash-veh ni’pthak svi’ha’kiv t’nash-veh. Wi nam-tor nash-vel ri’wat. Jol arhem hwi._ "

Starek’s eyes are black, now, with only the faintest rings of grey. He is swamped with the pleasure inside his mind, and his body still moves, automatically, in perfect time, gracefully bucking and writhing.

He has never been so humbled, so terrified, so contented.

" _Aoi’hlan ihir arhem dh’hwai._ "

It is astonishing to feel Starek’s mind awaking to its new capabilities. Spock holds him tighter, hands slipping down to his shoulders now, as they move easily, perfectly together, building in pitch and tempo to a final peak that is so simply reached it is like beaming there, where before they had merely been flying.

The pleasure also uncoils in Starek and he coats their stomachs with it even as he is being filled. His surprise is met by Spock’s calm assurance that simultaneity is a condition that he will become accustomed to, in time.

" _Ashau tu._ " Spock whispers, his voice within and without.

Despite the warmth and sweetness of the moment, Starek feels a chill at some rather peculiar realisations.

This art had been lost to his people — not just bonding, but mind-melds, at all, and it was probably for the best. He shudders at the thought of the _Tal’Shiar_ having the power to reach into minds. There was, after all, a fair reason he’d cut and run, like he had. He wonders, sometimes, if they didn’t have more power than the Senate let on, but this, thankfully, is still out of their reach.

He pushes the thought aside, and refocuses on the moment. He finds himself inseparably joined to the brightest star in his sky. In this moment, he can reach out and touch the things that Stavret used to try to explain to him — they’ve been following Spock’s work for years. Maybe, now, he’ll finally understand some of it.

It would, he thinks, be more correct to say that Stavret had followed Spock’s work. Starek, himself, had been more interested in the Spock’s honour.

A memory flits by — ‘What’s wrong with him is the _Thaessu_ half,’ another Romulan had laughed, and Starek had broken his nose, without thinking. He remembers Stavret’s shock and horror, his best friend pulling him away from the Romulan physicist.

Yes, he’d gotten into fistfights over the heritage of someone he didn’t even know. Someone he never imagined meeting. Someone he was now inextricably bound to.

" _E’lev ,_" he pants, the world still spinning.

" _Ashayam._ "

The strength and newness of the bond are pure delight. It would now be nothing to disengage from Starek physically, for they are still so closely joined. Yet Spock perceives the other’s need for him and stays, kissing his hair with reverent fingers.

" _K’diwa_ , this is going to get us both killed, isn’t it?" Starek really doesn’t sound as bothered as he probably should. "I mean, your father… Whatever you just did to that girl… And me, well… putting my _aumh _ into a _Thaessu _ is bad enough. What are the _Tal’Shiar _ going to say when it comes out I’ve given you my _gemaen_ , as well?"

There’s a long pause, as he considers this.

"Well, how’s that for a copper-bottomed, ocean-going _aumh-lhanv_. I think we just started a war." He laughs, softly. "I mean, we were straining trans-imperial relations, as it was, but now? I may actually have to take that offer of asylum seriously — if that’s not the trap that I so sincerely believe it to be."

He brings a hand up, covering his own eyes as he giggles, inanely. "We’re going to die. I’m … I’m okay with this. I can go out with no regrets. _Eneh_ always said I’d do something amazing with my life." He’s hung over, exhausted, bruised, used, and full of _khrasaya_ , and right now, he can’t stop laughing.

Spock withdraws and rolls to lie on his back, gathering Starek and the blankets close to him. "You seem less afraid than excited, _yeht-veh_." Their new bond is thrumming with shared emotion. This will take some getting used to, Spock observes.

"Yet, for once, I believe you may be overly pessimistic. No one is aware of what just happened save ourselves. However, I would support your taking the Federation’s offer of asylum, if only to be assured of seeing you more _frequently_." His sultry emphasis indicates that every day would not be often enough.

Starek purrs, rubbing his cheek against Spock’s chest. "Excited really isn’t the word. I’m just used to things going wrong in the most theatrical possible way."

He stops, for a moment, stretching in a way that pops his neck, his shoulder, and his lower back. He looks at himself, taking a quick assessment, as he rolls back toward Spock. "I hurt. Quite a bit. No chocolate for me, this week. Also, I think you managed to leave a bruise on my _fek_ , not that I’m complaining. At all. On second thought, I’m not sure if that’s a bruise or a hickey."

"Just in case you’re worried about it? Not going to slow me down. Give me half an hour, and if I don’t pass out from this headache, I’ll be good for more of the same."

He nibbles at Spock’s lower lip, nipping and licking between phrases. "But, back to slightly serious topics, you’re forgetting the part where one more person does know what just happened, because she was _there_. Do you think her family won’t know, within the hour? And from there, who knows what comes next. You’d know the data distribution patterns better than I, in this particular social matrix."

_T’Pring! How could he have forgotten?!_

A defeated groan rises out of Spock’s chest, rising to meet the sudden sense of vertigo in his head. Turning, he curls towards Starek in an attitude of complete despair, dragging up the blankets over both of their heads.

"So, I hear you’ve been suspended from service. Any chance you’d like to run away with some pirates?" Starek laughs, easily, wrapping himself around Spock. "I promise I have at least two scientists on board, already. You’ll have good company. I might be joking, but I’m sure the offer can be made seriously, if you need somewhere to go."

More serious, but only marginally, he kisses the top of Spock’s head. "Calm down. You only think you’ve lost everything. There is nothing that can’t be either fixed or swept under the rug. I have a brilliant astrophysicist, a vicious doctor, and five lunatic engineers at my disposal, _e’lev_. We can make things happen. Fight fire with fire, if we have to."

Starek is calm, stolid, and determined, if a bit sharply wicked around the edges. He reads as exactly the sort of Romulan one is best off not running into in a dark alley. A thin thread of humour winds through the bold armour, and finally he has to say it.

"You know, I really shouldn’t take so much pride in the fact that you broke up with your fiancée, telepathically, while you had your _elat _ in my _pash-yel_. It just makes me stupidly happy." The swaggering cockiness spills across the bond. "You make me happy. You make me want to do whatever you need done, to get out of this as close to intact as possible. For the record, I don’t know if we’re right or wrong. I do know that I don’t give, as the Terrans say, a flying French fuck. I win. I have all the toys. Well, all but one, because I don’t get to keep me. I belong to you."

Unable to keep Starek’s optimism at bay, Spock sighs and flips back the covers so that they are once again in the light. Starek is in fact haloed by it — a coincidence Spock finds more than mildly entertaining. "If you continue to fill the gaping holes in my thought processes, we may yet emerge alive. Come. Let us shower and then go downstairs to spend some time with our most gracious hosts."

Despite vehement protests, which Spock may have only been able to refuse because their bond is now in place, he sends his bondmate into the shower alone. This gives him a chance to strip, load up the sonic washer, and arrange their room. A critical sniff compels him to open a window. Although he finds the scent of their coupling pleasant, he not about to inflict it on anyone else. When Starek is finished, Spock meets him with kisses and goes in for his own turn.

Starek takes the time to consider himself in the bathroom mirror, realising he looks much less like himself than he’d imagined. Returning to his bag, he retrieves an ivory handled straight razor and a jar of oil, and sets to work correcting, first, the fact that his skin fails to be as smooth as it should be. He sings an old Terran song, as he works, flicking the razor at the sink, between lines.

"When I was a young man, and very well thought of, there was naught that I asked that the ladies denied. I nibbled their hearts like a handful of raisins, and I never spoke love, but I knew that I lied…"

It goes on in that manner for several verses, telling the sad story of an arrogant young cocksman who loses his love to his own bad habits, when she leaps into the sea because she doesn’t know he loves her. As he reaches the end, he picks up the towel, again, roughly polishing his skin, with it.

That’s better. He looks… a bit more composed.

By the time Spock emerges from the shower, Starek is trying to cover some of the damage to his face, mostly from exhaustion, though some of it is from falling in the broken glass in his quarters. It won’t scar badly, and after a few months, there likely won’t be marks at all.

He is bent toward the mirror, half-dressed, with a small pot of paint in one hand, touching up the edges of his eyesockets, where they blend out into his cheeks. "Not looking so good, here. Also, I still can’t tell if that’s a bruise or a hickey, but if I’m lucky, maybe you’ll give me a matching one, later?"

Spock wraps an arm around Starek’s taut abdomen, smoothing finger kisses along the tops of his shoulders. "Expect it, _t’tal-kam_."

The contrast between the amount of hair on his own body and the lack of it on Starek’s is particularly obvious at this time, causing Spock to moves away, lest he become too distracted. Still, he can’t escape without Starek noticing the the hint of green in a critical location and commenting lewdly.

Once they are dressed, Spock casts a critical eye over both of them and nods his approval. He leads the way downstairs to find Tunor and Selov not working or studying but together, in the living area, with many holoscreens arranged before them.

"Ah, _here_ they are," Selov glides over to embrace the startled pair. "Congratulations, _sov-masu-theklar_ , on your most auspicious union. This time you made page one."

Beyond Selov, Spock catches sight of one of the holos, the cover of a periodical he has never seen before. It is entitled Superficial and Terran and bears a photo of himself as a Starfleet cadet and the title _Kafeh na’Dena t’Rihanha _ in tall italic script.

Reaching over Selov’s embracing arm, Spock palms his face.


	6. Chapter 6

" _Scheisse! Rhienn u’mnih, dh’aehyy lloann kehreh._ Fuck, shit, damn, buggering assblights. _Lau aru-yokul valit bezhun t’au – heh yi shitau vesht pash-tor svi’snazh-vipohshayek t’au._ " A green tint sits high on Starek’s cheeks, and his ears have flattened against his head. It is, in this moment, quite easy to see that he shares a distant ancestor with a _le’matya_. " _Imirrhlhhse shikaen hwai u’anhelae nnea eloher aeim! Bath’pa bezhun t’au!_ Twice!"

He is vibrating, slightly, hands clenching and unclenching, face smoothed to a perfect blank. "Forgive me. Words failed me spectacularly, for a moment."

Folding his hands together, he rests the first two fingertips against his nose. "May I summon my chief engineer and my pilot? I feel the need to begin damage control as quickly as possible, and they are the best I have. I would not wish to impose, but I assure you, we always arrive prepared for a visit — unless I arrive as I did this morning, for which I do apologise, again. May we bring you Andorian pastry? Romulan ale? Orion — well, never mind what the Orions have to offer, but I can assure you they are generally better-behaved than I am.

His hands are moving, now, as if snapping together parts of a puzzle, eyes still on the floor, as he speaks, staring intently into something only he can see.

"Summon whomever you like," Selov offers, his expressive hands wide. "We so rarely have guests of any sort and I am in a celebratory mood."

"Celebratory?" Spock looks aghast. "I may never be able to set foot on Vulcan again. And as for Starfleet-"

Tunor uncharacteristically interrupts him. The equivalent of his close approach, in human terms, might have been a fraternal hand on the shoulder. "There is an ancient parable in many cultures with which I believe you are already familiar. That of [the horse that ran away](http://web.archive.org/web/20150526220355/http://www.noogenesis.com:80/pineapple/Taoist_Farmer.html)."

Spock nods, collecting himself. Regaining his customary _sang-froid_ , now that he is bonded to Starek, appears as though it will take significant effort.

"Would you like something to drink?" Tunor adds.

"Thank you, yes."

"Sparkling water," urges Selov from where he has once again parked himself in front of the holos. "Tunor thinks the bubbles are frivolous," he says, as an aside to Starek. "But I enjoy them a great deal."

"Selov, my dear man, that’s because you are frivolous. But I find this more than acceptable. Refreshing, even."

Starek rocks back on his heels, a moment, unsure if the flood of pain and terror washing over him is his own. Might as well be, if it isn’t. Selov reminds him of home — the parts of it he liked — and the fact that he enjoyed things about _ch’Rihan_ is not an idea he’s prepared to face, right now.

He pulls the communicator out of his pocket, stepping toward the broadest open space he can find. "Starek to bridge. I need my chiefs down here for damage control. Riena has the conn, until we return."

It is Stavret who answers, sounding concerned. "What do you need us to bring?"

Starek can hear his pilot stand, hitting brass buttons, in the background. "Tell Mer to get me something for allergies. Have D’nila bring the list. From you, I need … I need you. Bring a PADD. Leave it logged in to the onboard systems. You’re going to do some bad things, and I need you down here to do them."

" _Kllhwnia._ " Stavret sighs. "How do you even get into these things — no, don’t answer that. In fact, don’t even try to tell me what this is about until we get there."

"My mark, three feet east," Starek says, snapping the communicator closed. "And now I get to stand here for a few minutes, while they grab things. This _will_ be taken care of."

He looks at Spock, as though there is something else he can say, but the words won’t come. He is frightened, but calm, and that is what matters, as he lets the coldness settle through him.

"Is there anything we may provide?" Selov inquires. His hands are dancing over an interface plate in his lap, causing holo screens to shrink and grow, approach and recede, brighten and fade.

Spock eases himself closer to Starek, finding a perverse sense of security in his nearness to this living maelstrom of events and emotion. That he is now bonded with, he reminds himself, with the fact being beamed across the galaxy, faster than light.

"I have no idea. Seriously. I’m a poet. Sometimes I paint. I don’t know subspace networking from a wet _sehlat’s_ ass." Starek laughs, faintly, wrapping an arm around Spock’s waist.

"Regrets, _k’diwa_?" he asks, rubbing his nose against Spock’s ear.

Then the shimmer starts, and three pirates appear, dressed more or less the part — another Romulan man, all in brown leather, an Andorian woman in a frock coat and latex knee-breeches, and an Orion woman, in a coat and pants that match her Commander’s. The Andorian is the swiftest of them, stepping forward with a handful of hyposprays, that she stuffs in Starek’s coat pocket. The Orion is next, throwing herself gleefully at Spock, but Starek catches her hip on his foot.

"D’nila, what did I tell you about touching Vulcans?"

"But, _Riov_! He came back for you! It’s so sweet!" she squeals, earning a dirty look from the doctor.

The other Romulan stays back, watching the rush, in amused disgust.

"Stavret, come here. I need you to hold onto Merendith. She only gets to punch me once, when I break the news."

Stavret looks entirely unamused as he steps closer.

"Well, it’s like this. You see, I came here because I’m –"

"An idiot," Merendith finishes the sentence.

"–in love, you blue-blooded ice-cube." Starek scowls, then continues. "Well, you see… I kind of eloped. I mean, I’m… Hey, did anyone see the news, this morning?"

"You married a Vulcan, and it’s all over the news," Stavret interprets.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind, _S’thora_?" Merendith lunges forward, and Stavret catches her easily.

"Look, I’ll lean into it. Make it good." Starek leans forward, and Merendith hits him hard enough in the eye, that he stumbles into Spock.

"Okay, now that that’s over with, can you people please act like sentients? Behind you, there, with the holo screens is Selov. You’ll like him — he’s just as charming as I am. And, of course, to my side, here, is my … ah … _deyhhan_. No, that’s not an accurate statement. My _telsu_ , Spock."

Stavret gives Starek a significant look, that may or may not be entirely too amused. " _Ek’tal-lan_." He bows to the Vulcan. "When I have finished bailing my _saj’dinam_ out of trouble, would you have time to discuss your thoughts on temporal mechanics? I read your paper from last year’s conference on Alpha Eridani II, and it brought up some interesting points on the nature of the perception of paradox."

Starek covers his face, and drapes an arm across D’nila’s shoulders, leading her toward where Selov sits. "Selov, this is my chief engineer, D’nila. D’nila, this is Selov, our last employer’s father. I’m going to go try to rescue Spock from Stavret, now. Don’t talk about my ass too much, while I’m gone."

Tunor, back with refreshments, moves unobtrusively around, hearing introductions and making sure everyone is well-served.

"So you’re saying they beamed aboard naked?" says Selov to D’Nila. "No, I had not heard this, _mathra_ , please continue."

Spock has a protective arm around Starek. "Far be it from me to criticize the dynamics of your crew, _tal-kam_ , but did your medical officer not just violate her Hippocratic oath?"

He is warmer to Stavret. "And, yes, temporal mechanics would be a pleasantly uncomplicated topic of conversation at a future time."

"Well, our _riov_ , he’s not afraid to be seen without clothes, but that sweet thing, Spock, was just peering over his shoulder, like the –" D’nila stops, mid-sentence glancing up to see Tunor. "Oh! _Riov_! There are two of them! And the next one’s just as cute as the first! You _do_ love me!"

"She’s Orion! She can’t help it!" Starek calls over, shaking his head. "They’re also together, D’nila. I don’t know that you’ll have any luck, there, but as much of a gossip as Selov may be, Tunor is just as much the engineer, I’m told."

D’nila looked back and forth between the two Vulcans, as though she’d gotten an early Christmas present.

Starek grins lopsidedly at Spock, carefully moving the swollen side of his face as little as possible. "Andorian chiurgeons are unique creatures, I’ve learned. Very skilled at cleaning up their own indiscretions, and not at all afraid to let you know they can both do and undo a solid beating."

Merendith frowns. "On most individuals, pain in a rather effective method of preventing trouble. The memory of pain generally prevents people from doing stupid things, unless, apparently, one is a drunken whore of a Romulan, like our goddamn lunatic commander, here." The doctor grins and pops Stavret under the chin, with her knuckles, in a somewhat friendly manner. "All Romulans aren’t crazed, just this one."

Stavret nods, a very Romulan hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as the arm around Merendith tightens, although in a non-aggressive fashion. He is less demonstrative than Starek, but he still isn’t too hard to read.

"I look forward to the discussion, _lhhai_ ," Stavret says, trying to completely ignore Merendith’s words, as he turns to lead her toward where D’nila is probably embarrassing the daylights out of their hosts.

"Gossip," Selov waves his hand at Starek fondly but dismissively, "As if he isn’t flattered by all the attention. So go on, _petakovsu_. What happened when Spock had to beam back? And stop leaning over her Tunor, you’ll frighten the poor thing. You can have her for technical discussions after I am finished."

Spock turns towards Starek, "I would advise that you tell your doctor to refrain from touching you in my presence, particularly with her fists."

Starek winks at Selov and returns his attention to Spock. "What? Why would I tell her to stop punching me? I’m an ass. She’s entitled. It’s not like she won’t fix it later."

Yet Spock remains dubious. "I will be fascinated to see the outcome of your plan, _ashayam_."

D’nila keeps running her mouth, squealing with giddy excitement, at appropriate intervals. "Oh, well he was wearing _clothes_ , when he left. And I don’t speak nearly enough Vulcan, but I’m pretty sure he proposed while I was beaming him back. My poor _riov cried_ — Don’t you say you didn’t, Starek! I was _there_."

Starek smiles at everyone. "In other news, I don’t have a plan. There are really a couple of ways we can do this — it’s kind of up to you, since it’s your society we’re offending. Mine doesn’t do things like this. Mine just shoots people in their sleep." He shrugs. "We can boldface it — which I’m partial to. Just stand up and say, yeah, we did that, and we’re not sorry. We can attempt to smear the messenger, which might be harder. I don’t know the girl. Or, if we can get enough backing, we can start a riot — I mean a socio-political movement. Of course, that’s kind of an extension of the first one. Then there’s the last option — we grab what we can and run like we’ve got Klingons on our nacelles."

Spock raises his eyebrow fractionally. "You mean to say that despite your desire to ‘get things under control’ you do not have an actual plan."

Selov is, as-ever, monitoring every conversation in the room. "If you are taking recommendations, I would advise a combination of options one, two, and three." A motion on the interface plate pushes all the holos back and dims them. "Although I admit that my views on this matter may be less than completely objective, my contacts in _K’lan-ne_ and elsewhere have kept me informed of some critical sociological and demographic trends taking place on _T’Khasi_ within the last several years.

"Our data confirm that the population density of Vulcan seems to have passed a critical point. The combination of this with the fact that our race is extremely urbanized, seems to be the cause of a dramatic increase in the incidents of broken pair-bonds in maturing adults and the consequential abandonment of traditional roles for, shall we say, less conventional living arrangements. Thus, it seems that if you were to choose option three, you would have more support than perhaps at any other time in the past."

He turns towards the newlyweds, his eyes on Spock. "Furthermore, I believe most of the federated worlds, would see a cheerful admission of your circumstances in a positive light. Andorians value honesty, Terrans, freedom of choice, and Tellarites, pride. Spock, if you wish to return to active duty, a courageous declaration of your choice will no doubt work in your favor with Starfleet as well.’

"And as for T’Pring," here the tall, brightly-robed Vulcan allows himself a sniff, "that _ko-krinti_ may be rationally persuaded into silence once the amount of information I have on _her_ reputation becomes known. Tell me, Spock, have you also felt . . . improper levels of, shall we say, warmth at random times within the past two years?"

"I had thought it was merely . . . ." and he trails off looking stunned.

Selov gives him the eyebrow. "I thought so. I have it on excellent authority that several Vulcans have been working to disguise the liaison between T’Pring and your cousin, Stonn."

"Riot it is, then, ladies and gentlemen!" Starek throws his arms wide, as if to embrace the plan. "D’nila, I want you and Selov to get the gossip moving. If she’s with his cousin, and we can prove it, I want it on subspace by the Vulcan evening broadcasts. Front page news, _sseikea_."

His eyes sparkle with excited fury — well, one of them does. The other sort of glints dimly behind the greenish swelling on that side of his face.

"Stavret, I need you to work with me and Spock. We need to cut some intentional footage here, that makes this decision seem a little less like a warp core implosion than it actually is. Merendith, dear… I need you to repair the damage to my face, before I get on screen, ’cause this isn’t going to work if I look like I got punched into it."

"Spock…" Starek finally slows down. "You and I both know we’re _kae-amp_. Just a little. I’ve known you for … a week? And we do something like this? I have no regrets, but it has to sound better than that on screen. All I can say is don’t lie to them. Leave things out, emphasize the wrong parts, lead them to strange conclusions, but do not lie."

He continues as Merendith comes over to repair his face. She’s quite efficient, and the swelling decreases swiftly, the green tone fading as she works.

"I shouldn’t have to say that, but after what I’ve seen, I’m quite sure the old axiom about Vulcans and truth is … less than entirely accurate."

Spock is still unable to control his flashes of amusement and this one manifests itself as a smile. "Thank you for considering my opinions in this, _tal-kam_." He squeezes Starek’s hand teasingly. "Rest assured, I will be wholly honest."

Tunor’s eyes glitter with a more restrained although no less heartfelt reaction. "Allow me to offer Selov’s study for the new footage. The numerous books and artifacts will provide an appropriately solemn backdrop. And Merendith, if you would care to accompany me to the hydroponics bay, we have a few species that you may find professionally interesting."

Selov calls after them merrily. "Work on your script, _pudor-tor vehlar_. We can either film and release or I can get you a live interview."


	7. Chapter 7

Stavret sets up the cameras, angling for footage that displays the sensible environment, and makes his witslight little brother look a bit less short.

"You don’t want to do this in those clothes, Starek _-saj_. It looks like you slept in them, and knowing you…" Stavret trails off, raising one eyebrow.

He looks at Spock, a long moment. "I would say I don’t know what you see in my brother, but I do. Thank you."

Starek rolls his eyes at Stavret. "No, really, you don’t."

" _Fvadt ataen_. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know." Stavret shakes his head.

It takes some time to get the pair of them dressed appropriately — Spock in the robes of his people, Starek in brown leather and brass buttons — but finally, the filming begins.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, and others of the Alpha Quadrant: I am here, today, because of some truly unfortunate rumours circulating about the relationship between myself and Spock. In particular, I have heard the phrase ‘Romulan love-slave’ bandied about, indiscriminately, and I’ll have you know, I object, on multiple counts.

"Let us begin with the accusation of my origins. Yes, I came from _ch’Rihan_. I will tell you no more of that, for I have no desire to endanger my parents, who still reside there. This is also why parts of my face have been blocked from this recording. I know the ways of my people, and I will not betray my _shikaen_.

"This brings me to offers from the Federation of asylum. Let me say that I did not request any such thing. I have not _defected_ from the Romulan Empire. I will not dishonour my home, my family, or my people. I have not changed sides, I have chosen one, and that side is mine. I have no intentions of asserting political affiliations now, or in the future. I have no intention of trafficking in the secrets of the Romulan Empire, the Klingon Empire, or the Federation. These are your concerns, not mine."

Starek pauses, to let that sink in.

"Now, to face the issue at hand, I have known of Spock for far longer than I have known him, but I have found that he is as intelligent and pleasantly unpredictable as he has been made out to be, if not moreso. I trust this man — this _Thaessu_ — with my life, because in the last week, he has been given many opportunities and damned fine reasons to betray such a trust, and he has not taken them. Hear me, when I say this — and let me even make it easy for you: _ashau heh rok-tor nash-veh Spock. Jol u’ilhra arhem Spock._ I love and trust Spock. Let me not be misunderstood, here."

Again he waits, certain that this is the point at which the panic will begin.

"And I know there are those of you who speak of a union between two men as illogical and unproductive, but the same can be said of an arranged union in which the partners hardly know each other, by more than name. Certainly more than can be said for an arranged union in which the children could not be guaranteed to belong to the bonded male."

Starek’s eyebrow arches disdainfully.

"I have chosen my mate, and I am more than satisfied. How many of you can say the same?"

He looks to Spock and holds out his hand, shifting focus to the man who has yet to speak.

"To the citizens of all federated planets, in particular those of my homeworld, I have this to say regarding the subject of my union with Commander Starek of the Renunciation:

"Numerous motives have been erroneously ascribed to my actions, the most pervasive, perhaps, being that my initial encounter and subsequent bonding with Commander Starek were not guided by conscious decision. To the individuals promulgating these fallacies, allow me to be explicit. At all times, in this as in any other endeavor, my actions are deliberate choices resulting from the consideration of all data available.

"As to my selection of mate, it is important to consider that an individual is not a society. Commander Starek’s planet of origin is not the sum total of his character any more than my homeworld completely defines who I am. Furthermore, despite what has been circulating in the media and public forums, both his integrity and his logic, as seen in the context of his unique situation, are highly developed.

"My actions are not intended to provoke any political or social response. Naturally, as my family and I are often subject to public scrutiny, many things I do will have larger repercussions than those of the average citizen. However, it is vital that my voluntary selection be viewed, first and foremeost, as personal.

"Yet although I have set out to prove nothing, the results of my actions this week have engendered a great deal of opinion and, yes, even sentiment in many areas of the Federation. My view of this is that it is less an obstacle than an opportunity for considered discussion. The societal effects of isolating those members of the population who have been traditionally seen as biologically nonviable are coming to light. It is time that we address them."

Spock holds out the two fingers of his right hand for the finger-embrace and Starek meets them with his left.

"Just as you, _ashayam_ , and I are now more than we were, let us all move forward with careful consideration, towards a future uniting logic and compassion."

"Let me clarify that last bit for the non Vulcan-speaking members of the audience," Starek offers, a slim smile crossing his lips, before he grabs the front of Spock’s robe, and pulls him into a very human kiss.

Stavret kills the recording, seconds later. "All right, _imirrhlhhse_ , knock it off."

"Sorry," Starek grins, lips damp and slightly swollen. "It was necessary. Make sure you edit my name out of that, before it goes live. I won’t have my parents tortured to death because I married a Vulcan."

"I don’t think they’ve figured out who you are, yet. My parents have been pretty firm that we’re dead, as far as I can tell." Stavret consoles him.

"I’m not taking chances with them. Would you, with your own?" Starek asks.

"I know. I also know that if it’s too late, there’s nothing we can do for them, and my family goes if yours does." Stavret looks entirely unamused. "I remember the death announcements, when we were still in the Neutral Zone. I hope like _ourai _ that still stands, after this, you _fvadt feanna_."

"I’m sorry I dragged your family into this. I didn’t have all the information. I didn’t know there was a _kosu_ involved. It looked good. I jumped. From here, it still looks pretty good." Starek spreads his empty hands, and Stavret grabs him in a frustrated hug.

"You’re going to get us killed, one of these days." Stavret looks at Spock over his best friend’s shoulder. "He is, too. It’s just not going to be this time, if I can help it."

Starek grins like a fool, stepping back with one arm still hooked around Stavret’s ribs, and holds the other out to Spock. They really do look like brothers, this close together, one comedic and the other tolerantly exasperated.

"Welcome to the family, _k’diwa_. First we take the news rags, then we take _Shi’Kahr_."

All this smiling and touching, Spock reflects, stepping into the circle of arms, is becoming addictive. Despite his exasperation Stavret’s embrace and his pat on the back feel as comfortable as a bowl of _plomik_ soup on a winter morning.

Just then there is a little cheer from back down the hall, D’nila and Selov’s voices, mixed.

"I believe we shall need to investigate." he murmurs, honest curiosity mixing with trepidation as to what could have caused the fuss.

Back in the living room there are twice as many holoscreens spread out as before. Some contain graphs, showing trends as a function of time. Others contain the faces of various contacts, almost all looking away, at their own clusters of screens. News feeds are live on several more, including repeated footage of a well-to-do Vulcan woman dashing most ungracefully for the relative security of a hovercar.

"She challenged us to ‘do our worst’," Selov shrugs. "Aaand the story just broke. Observe, you can see the number of subscribers overtaking those following your marriage."

Starek’s nose twitches in amusement, as he eyes Selov and D’nila. "I owe you both. This is brilliant. I’m afraid my usual methods of gratitude may be undergoing an overhaul, so you’ll have to negotiate with Spock, on that front."

D’nila fairly sparkles with delight. "Oh, but Spock _-daeh_! Our _riov_ is so _talented_ with his gratitude! Of course, you know that, by now. Is it true if we take advantage of him, we’ll be taking advantage of you, too?"

Stavret steps forward and wraps an arm around the Orion, looking as exasperated and put-upon as always, as he rubs his knuckles on the top of her head. "What do we tell you about taking advantage of the Vulcans, D’nila? It’s not nearly as polite as it is to do it to other races. They’re at least as uptight about that sort of thing as I am."

Starek’s ears turn a bit green, and he leans his head against Spock’s shoulder. "Can we please not talk about the percentage of the crew I’ve slept with?"

"Eighty-seven and a half percent," Stavret offers. "Sorry. Ish. I’m done."

"On the contrary, _yeht-veh_ , I find the subject most absorbing." Spock succeeds in keeping a straight face. "Tell me, is Merendith the sole exception in your crew of eight?"

Selov is looking at Starek with new respect. The old lust is also back and his hands jerk into fists. Five Orion girls. At least. And the notion of anything being carried across their new bond —

"Excuse me, but I shall need to find — ah."

His leavetaking is forestalled by the appearance of Tunor with a stack of plates and cutlery. Merendith is behind him carrying an enormous piece of flatbread covered with cheese and some sort of red sauce, among other things.

"Is this not intriguing, Selov? A new delicacy for us to try."

Selov looks frustrated by the inability to corner his mate somewhere private. "Fascinating," he grates out.

"Is it that obvious? Heh. I’d never even try. I’d be stepping on Stavret’s toes, I think." Starek glances at Tunor and the doctor, in a moment of subject-changing panic. "Ah, D’nila, go help the good doctor with that, would you?"

D’nila turns to look, mouth opening for another comment on the previous subject when she notices that Merendith has entered the room. "Yes, _Riov_."

She winks and pats Starek on the cheek, earning the commander a dirty look from the doctor, who is certain he’s covering up for something, again. Starek fails to look entirely innocent, which is particularly damning.

Stavret cocks his head at Spock, and shrugs, as the table is arranged for lunch, behind him. "It was in the Neutral Zone. We were fairly certain we were going to die. It seemed like an appropriate response to the situation."

The comment is nearly a peace offering — the kind of thing one says when it comes out at the wedding that one has slept with the bride. In fact, Stavret thinks he’s heard Starek use similar excuses during at least one such situation, in which that was an even more correct assessment than it was, here.

Spock is noncommittal "What is past is past. Until, of course, the science of temporal mechanics advances sufficiently."

Tunor puts everything down on the coffee table and directs D’nila to do the same. Then he tosses a cushion onto the floor and sinks composedly down onto it. Spock and Stavret do the same, sitting near one another in order to begin their technical discussion.

Selov pats the sofa beside him and speaks to the Orion, "Come here _pi’lara_ and tell me more of your deep space adventures."

The Vulcan engineer begins to slice up the circular bread into segments, speaking to Merendith as he does. "So this pi’za as you call it, will have to have a separate Vulcan name. The phonetic translation has . . . some rather unfortunate connotations."

Starek nearly chokes on his tongue as the translation being hinted at darts through the back of his mind.

" _Thuhk-kap?_ " he suggests weakly, trying very hard not to laugh. He sinks to his knees on Spock’s other side, arranging himself gracefully.

"Adequate," Tunor says, taking his plate and utensils over to where D’nila has indicated, "but perhaps lacking in detail. One would not wish to eclipse the contributions of the sauce and other vegetables. Also, the good doctor has mentioned that there exists a dessert version, containing chocolate. Perhaps _shihvek-kap_."

D’nila sits a little too close to Selov, smiling temptingly at Tunor, as she does so. "Did I tell you about the time our _riov _ learned to _oo-mox_? Come sit with us, Tunor _-daeh_! I want to talk with you, as well — but about mechanical things."

Starek shakes his head, amused, and picks up a slice of pizza. He knows the Orion can carry on two conversations at once, on completely different topics, even if he wished she’d leave the Ferengi out of this one… It was yet another of those compelling skills that Orions learned — and the reason he’d never take a human into his crew. Nothing would get done.

Stavret is very polite, choosing to eat with a fork, in quiet rebuke of his commander’s manners. "So, tell me, _Ek’tal-lan_ , how do you see your work affecting preconceptions of destiny and the Pogo Paradox? I mean, the very course that directs a man into the past likely cannot be altered, once he is there, otherwise, he would never have gone, and therefore did not arrive. A time-loop caught between did and did not would be complicated and disastrous, I would think."

"This is only a problem when the model of temporal space is limited to a single dimension. In T’Gell’s conception of planar-temporal realities," and Spock gestures at the remaining wedges on the platter, "such difficulties are, of course, resolved by extension into alternate multiverses."

Starek slips one of his hands into Spock’s, hoping to at least get an impression of what he and Stavret are discussing. No matter how small Stavret breaks it down, Starek gets lost by the third sentence, or so. He’s not sure how the bond works, but maybe it’ll let him at least pretend he gets it, for a little while.

Across the table, D’nila is still explaining the finer points of _oo-mox_ to Selov, who appears to be fascinated, and Tunor, who appears to be calculating his chances of being able to walk tomorrow. Starek does wish he hadn’t gotten into negotiations with that Ferengi, especially after it mistook the innate Romulan gender ambiguity for a sign that he was female. Of course, that had ended in some absolute hilarity, that no doubt D’nila would get around to sharing, shortly.

Merendith has positioned herself as far from anyone else as she can be, and still be at the table. From time to time, she looks up, between bites, and says something about botany, to Tunor. Mostly, she silently watches the two Romulans enjoying Spock, as if attempting to determine the nature of his appeal. Only once does she commit something that might pass as violence, throwing a slice of mushroom at D’nila.

"Dee, don’t talk about that. Nobody really wants to be reminded of that Ferengi’s impressions of the _s’thora_ ‘s crotch," she groans, treating D’nila with far more tolerance than she does Starek.

"But, Mere _-daeh_! It was so funny! We have it all on film — and the _riov _ –" she laughs, patting Selov on the shoulder "– the _riov _ almost got him right in the eye."

Stavret is pretending he cannot hear any of this, and continues to run his mouth about causality and forking timelines.

During the next pause in his conversation with Stavret, Spock leans towards his bondmate. "So I take it your encounter with the Ferengi was not the instance in which you successfully negotiated a treaty during coitus?"

Starek just looks critically between Spock and D’nila, suspecting collusion.

"Incidentally," Selov wonders, "I assume your statements are prepared? Perhaps we had best release them now since — Tunor, what time is it in the capital?"

He pauses for a half second, comparing the rotation rates of the two planets in his head. "It is evening there now. One hour after sunset."

"Prime time in _Shi’Kahr_." Selov muses. "Shall we?"

Starek glances at Stavret. "Is it clear, _sa-kai_?"

" _Dh’cupae hwi, ssuy!_ " Stavret responds, almost as blank-faced as a Vulcan.

Lifting his glass in a toast, Starek nods solemnly, nose twitching in amusement. "Bombs away, gentlemen."


	8. Chapter 8

Stavret picks up his PADD and his communicator. First he passes the edited video to Selov, then he calls the ship.

"Ree, set the main viewer to Vulcan Subspace Gamma. You may also want to make popcorn."

" _Erei’riov?_ What are you two up to?" Riena answers, and Stavret can hear her tuning the viewer.

"You’ll see. We are, as Starek’s so fond of saying, about to blow the knobs off _Shi’Kahr_." As he closes the communicator, he can hear her laughing and jabbering in Orion to the girls in the engine room.

Starek wipes off his hands, takes a drink, and pushes his glass away from the edge of the table. Within the hour, feedback should build to measurable levels. By tomorrow, the Romulan response will be in.

Selov picks up the interface plate and holds it above the one containing his dinner, fingers dancing on the top.

" _Okazhuksu_ ," he calls, and a number of heads on the smaller holoscreens look their way. "A most fascinating sub-gamma program is about to begin. Set your recorders."

"Wait — just a –" and there is rapid activity from many areas.

"Are you ready?" He asks, savoring the moment.

"We are prepared."

He moves the interface plate over towards D’nila. "The blue circle next to my thumb is the appropriate key."

Grinning widely, D’nila extends a stiff index finger and presses home.

Starek does not realise he has stopped breathing until Spock looks over at him in alarm. This is different. This is not his game. He is excellent, in person, disrupting the calm around him, and taking advantage of the blind spots in consensual reality, but this? He’s never been on screen, before — not like this.

If this goes well, it’s going to start social chaos on Vulcan. If it goes wrong, it’s going to start a war with the Empire. If it goes _extremely_ wrong, it will do both, and get his entire family executed.

He wants to turn back time — not to turn down T’Nis’s offer, but to make Spock understand, earlier, to get out sooner. Starek wants what he has gained, but he sincerely wishes the price was not quite so high.

Merendith watches Stavret, who is still running sequences on his PADD, eyeing him with a respect she will never admit to. After a year on the Neutral Zone border, she had never seen fit to call Romulans an honourable people, but after her time on the Renunciation, she cannot doubt it any longer. For a Romulan, it isn’t about chivalric necessity, it’s about family — and this was a moment that she could admit to being proud of the one that had adopted her. Not that she would. Ever.

On the screen, the earlier recording plays back, and other panels open alongside it, as more feeds pick it up, each adding commentary. D’nila points to one, and Selov centres it. The Vulcan on the screen is talking about how the video is likely a fake, and the entire affair has been manufactured to make a fool of Ambassador Sarek. Luckily, he’s not the only Vulcan with an opinion.

Tunor leans over D’Nila and dismisses the screen with a disdainful flick of his hand. "Tevik, you select evidence with a skill that shames every member of our race. How you have even remained a news reporter is a mystery."

Selov is, for once, equally sober. " _T’kanlar_ , you are both very well spoken in this recording. Those without an agenda will see the truth of it."

Spock is not so sure. For the first time in his life he wonders if he might have been more expressive. Do his measured words alone convey his certainty that he has, for good or ill, made the correct choice? Also, it is the _right_ choice. Somehow he has transcended merely looking at all the available data and calculating the probabilities. Despite the many unknowns he is somehow assured that there is a deeper truth to this. .

A call warbles in on a priority channel and Selov freezes. Spock and Starek take the cue, looking from him to Tunor and back again.

"She recognized the study, no doubt," Tunor says folding his hands together and rising. "I will take the call there, Selov, inform her."

"I apologize for this interruption everyone," their host murmurs, looking deflated. "However, this is best attended to immediately."

"Daddy, I -" the caller begins, stiffening visibly when she sees who else is present. "So. They _are_ there."

"Your father will explain all, _lale_ , I am simply transferring the call."

"Krikh –" luckily, the signal is cut off before any more can be heard.

Merendith cracks her knuckles, and Stavret looks up from his PADD, eyeing her intently. An entire wordless conversation takes place between her antennae and his eyebrows. With a slight nod, he opens his communicator and hails the ship, again.

"Ree _-saj_ , have Odile stand by in the transporter room. I don’t know, but let’s not take chances."

"As you like it, sir." Riena sounds unconvinced, but if the sub-commander thinks they’re going to have to run, she’s not going to be the one to hold up the exit.

" _Khanai’ra_ , Ree _-saj_." Stavret signs off, returning to the scene at hand.

Starek feels slightly ill, and moves closer to Spock, stopping just shy of climbing into the Vulcan’s lap. "It isn’t going to be that bad, Stavret."

"You’ve just started the closest thing Vulcan’s seen to rioting in the streets of _Shi’Kahr_ , since the Syrrannites. And T’Nis knows where we are, which may lead to … retaliation." Stavret is ultimately sensible. "However, I believe you are correct in your assumption. I just think it’s best to be prepared, in case you are wrong."

"I’m not arguing your precautions. I’m just … reassuring myself," Starek manages a sickly smile.

" _Riov_ , cheer up! You’re married to a sexy Vulcan! If they don’t kill you, which we’re not going to allow, you get to have endless, incredible sex for the rest of your life!" D’nila’s unflagging optimism is back. "You worry too much, Starek _-daeh_."

"Endless?" Spock inquires, lifting an eyebrow at the Orion. He contemplates it for the first time himself, with a kind of rising excitement.

Selov is as steely as any of the guests have seen him thus far. "Our daughter is formidable, and the moon in my sky, but she knows that I — we, would never forgive her for instigating further actions against you. Also, be at ease," and he assumes a more sardonic expression. "Open confrontation was never her style.

"Now," he says, reassuming his habitually lighthearted air. "Merendith. As a kindness to your host, and more importantly, while my mate is out of the room, may we repair to the kitchen so that you may show me the how to prepare the chocolate version of this delightful _shihvek-kap_? D’nila, you have the conn."

D’nila lights up, fiddling with the controls on the interface plate. "Aww! You’re so good to me, Selov _-daeh_! We don’t have such nice things on the ship!"

Stavret throws a napkin at her. "And whose fault is that, oh, _dyht paectum_?"

They banter between themselves, as Merendith leaves with Selov, making snide comments on the maturity of her crewmates. It is Starek, rather than D’nila who notices Spock’s interested eyebrow, at last. He leans closer, still, resting his chin on Spock’s shoulder as he whispers, "Endless. It only stops when either you tell me to stop, or I pass out from exhaustion."

He doesn’t whisper quite quietly enough, though, and Stavret’s ears turn green, as he stops in the middle of another volley, and gives Starek a horrified look.

"What’s wrong Stavret, you turning Orion, over there?" D’nila calls, joking about his blush. "Are they talking dirty without me? They are, aren’t they?"

She takes the interface plate with her, still tuning through the channels, and listening with one ear, as she pushes dishes out of the way, clearing off the end of the table, to take a seat directly in front of Spock. Her hands are swift on the controls, raising and lowering the volume of various commentators, as her interest in them rises and fades, but she gazes teasingly into Spock’s dazzled eyes.

Starek can’t even find it in himself to protest. She’s Orion. She’s just like that. Still, he grins predatorily at D’nila and nips at Spock’s earlobe.

Stavret excuses himself, and fairly runs from the room. "Kitchen. I have to go there. There’s … someone … chocolate. Excuse me."

For all his new sexual understanding, Spock can’t quite stand up to D’nila’s gaze, especially now that she is sitting so close, with her well-rounded thighs and posterior a few handspans away. It is all he can do to just swallow, look at the screens, and try to mentally control his vasodilator levels so that he doesn’t blush and further embarrass himself. Starek, hovering close to his ear, is not helping.

However, something on screen still manages to catch his attention. "Stop there, please."

A female Vulcan who is coiffed and robed differently than any Vulcans Starek has ever seen is seated behind a desk. "We return to you now, with our special edition of _Tu-Jarok _ Tonight, the program that reaches with compassionate hands to _V’tosh ka’tur_ and the citizens of all worlds. I would like to repeat that we have moved from our usual evening two days hence in order to provide timely discussions of the news even now being spread to all corners of _T’Khasi_. With me are Saavin and T’Nari, residents of _T’Paal_ , who have this to say on the subject of _Schn T’gai Spohkh_ ‘s bonding with a Romulan expatriate."

The younger woman to the host’s right speaks up. "Spock, Spock’s bondmate, although our elders disagree, we young people of _T’Paal_ are with you. Your logic was sound, as is ours in stating our support. We are not followers of _Tu-Jarok_ , however it is obvious that the danger in suppressing innate biological drives is greater than our leaders suppose."

Saavin, second young guest enters her opinion. "Indeed, the danger is both for the individual and society. Does a Human try to live as Tellarite? No — they live according to their nature. Therefore all Vulcans should be allowed to live according to their own natures, to bond with whomever they deem fit."

"And have you completed the ceremony of _Kan-Telan_?" The host asks of them.

"I have," answers Saavin, "But for myself it is a logical choice. My future husband is well-suited to myself and we shall have a productive union. Furthermore, he has never drawn outside of our circle." She adds, using the metaphor common among her age group.

"My family is not as concerned with the Kan-Telan." T’Nari continues. "Which is fortunate, since I may decide on a career offworld."

"Fascinating," breathes Spock as the interviews continue.

"Stavret! _Sa-kai_! It’s real! It’s happening! It’s working!" Starek leaps up, shouting, nearly knocking Spock over. "Come see! They love us in _T’Paal_!"

"I’m staying here, where it’s safe," Stavret calls back. "I know what you and D’nila are like when things go better than expected."

The commander gets up and scoops D’nila into his arms, lifting her straight from the table, so her knees rest over his hips, and spins around, in delight. "You are a genius, again. As usual. Anything you want, all you have to do is ask … Spock." He grins like a fool, kissing her, warmly, before he sets her back down, and kneels, again.

"I can only hope the Romulan reception is as strong and as favourable. One whole town, even if it’s my home, would be an astounding record on _ch’Rihan_." He strokes Spock’s cheek affectionately. "You. Just for you, I have become political fodder. For you, I am a revolutionary, instead of just an iconoclast."

A slim smile twists his face. "I hope that’s worth another hickey."

"It is -" Spock begins, but is interrupted by Selov, whisking in with trembling hands.

"What did I miss?"

Once Spock has summarized the interview, Selov nearly levitates with excitement. "Oh, to think that Tunor and I have lived to experience this."

He flutters out again. "Merendith! More cocoa in the sauce!"

Starek looks amused, but entirely serious. "For the record, I would like to state that, regardless of the current circumstances, I am not at all permitted near whatever is currently being made in the kitchen. I am still hung over from this morning, and last night, and probably the day before that."

Spock nods. "A sensible course of action. We shall abstain together _yeht-veh_."

"More for me!" D’nila chirps, flicking through a few more panes, as she winks at Spock. "You know, _Riov_ , in all your drunken rambling, I don’t think you ever told me how exactly you managed to talk Spock _-daeh _ out of his pants in the first place…"

"Talent," Starek quips, watching the dizzying display shifts, but tracking them almost as well as D’nila. He wonders if he will ever be as talented at multi-threaded processing as an Orion girl — all the ones he knows seem to have had it trained in from an early age.

"Oh, sure, get short and sweet with me." She pushes Starek with her foot, and bats her eyes at Spock. "I haven’t heard any of this from your side, yet. Do I have to get you drunk, or will you just tell me? It’s all so romantic!"


	9. Chapter 9

Spock shifts his gaze to D’nila and her furious blinking. "It is with some amusement that you will no doubt hear that I am about as reserved when intoxicated as when not. I refer you to your commander for evidence. However in the interests of, fostering warm relations with Starek’s adopted family, I can do nothing but submit myself to your questions."

For reassurance, he grips Starek’s hand.

Starek snorts at the unexpected second answer. "He really is rather pigheadedly rational under the influence. Like Stavret, but worse."

He squeezes Spock’s hand, and winks at D’nila. "I’m afraid your questions may have to be a little more cautious, than they are with me."

"What did you like about him, and when did you know you wanted to do something about it?" It sounded blunt, but for D’nila, it was a rather reserved turn of phrase. "I mean, I knew I wanted some of that as soon as I saw him — young, handsome, commander of his very own starship. What’s not to like? But that’s me. Tell me about you."

"I bought. Myself. An engineer." Starek grits out, ears greening, again, as D’nila laughs.

Spock inclines his head, ruminating. "We were sharing thoughts through a touching of hands. When I saw into his mind, not only the beauty there, but how he felt towards me . . . I realized that I harbored a similar attraction which had gone unacknowledged until that moment. It was an Orion word, incidentally: _chuuln_ ," he shapes his tongue around it carefully. "Of course, I realize now that it was only what he allowed me to see at the time. He was concerned about overstepping Vulcan emotional boundaries, I think."

"Ch — _chuuln_!" She howls with glee. "I taught him that word! And it’s a _very_ specific one…"

"Oh, that’s brilliant," she pants, wiping her eyes. "Such a naughty creature, _Riov_."

"This is exactly why I didn’t tell you," Starek grumbles.

Spock gives Starek’s hand a sly rub. "Also his facility the Vulcan language, at our initial meeting was quite remarkable. Was it long before you acted upon your feelings, D’nila?" He pins his mate with a look. "Or was it you who moved first?"

"I’m sure it sounds funny, but I had to really _try_ to get Starek _-daeh _ to play with me. He had all these superstitions about Orion mind control. Not that they aren’t true, just that they aren’t true for him — or for you. Something about the mental layout of vulcanoids just doesn’t react like the other humanoid species do." She shrugs. "It’s one of those warnings we get in training. I was surprised to see a Vulcan in the market for us, at all, until I realised that one, he wasn’t a Vulcan, and two, he needed a crew, not a brothel. Still didn’t stop us from breaking into his room and sleeping at the foot of his bed, just to see the look on his face, when he woke up."

"Actually, you might not be immune to us, Spock _-daeh_ … That’s something you might want to test, before you have to rely on it." D’nila looks serious and contemplative for a moment, diverting her attention, briefly, to pull up one of the screens, upon which a particularly disgusted-looking Vulcan was talking about how this ‘lapse in judgement’ was all the fault of Spock’s human side, and by extension, his mother. She makes an obscene gesture at the image, and returns to the subject at hand.

"So, he let you into his _head _?__ I mean, before he got your clothes off? That’s…" Her eyes widen, and she gives Starek quite a look. "So, this was all a logical endeavour for you? Perfectly rational, despite you being bonded and virginal? I’m really not sold, here."

"Yes, a test of the sort you mentioned will prove important." Spock replies and draws a breath. "As to the other. . . ."

Spock waits for some time before he continues. "I had always felt a cool sort of neutrality towards my formerly-intended. But that brief foray into Starek’s mind was . . . it was what I felt should have occurred when I first saw into T’Pring’s. Of course we were children then, so naturally there was no sense of desire. But there was also distinct lack of acceptance. Of belonging. And these things, as well as desire, were apparent in Starek’s thoughts from the very first."

"You make me sound easy," Starek complains, burying his face in Spock’s shoulder. "I mean, I am easy, but not…"

D’nila laughs again, reaching out to rumple Starek’s hair. "I know you better than that. You don’t _do_ relationships. You get bored too fast. Except with this one. You haven’t shut up about how one day you were going to catch the great Spock, and have your way with him, and paint sunsets on his chest, and then get shunned, in the morning."

She shoves Starek with her foot. "Didn’t work out that way, did it?"

"Oh, _imirrhlhhse_. Please tell me you didn’t just say that out loud." Starek pulls away from Spock, resting his head on his hands, on the edge of the table. "It was supposed to end when you knew me for what I was, Spock. I always thought you’d be the end of my career. One final moment of glory, and then an execution. I really thought you’d hate me for what I would do. Then I did it. Here we are…"

Spock finds Starek’s latest admission profoundly unsettling. He makes a mental note to ask him about it later, when they are alone.

"Hey, wait, you _did_ paint sunsets on him, and I didn’t get photos? You promised me pictures!"

"There have been far too many photographs already," Spock reminds her gently. Starek just groans into his hands and shakes his head. Selov, Merendith, and Stavret also return — the latter looking out for any untoward activities before committing himself to an entrance.

D’nila pushes Spock, with her foot, this time. "Sure there are stills, but they don’t do you justice. And you’re not painted up like a sunset in any of them."

Stavret makes a small choked sound of dismay, and Starek finally raises his head from the table. "D’nila, stop offending my second. It’s bad for morale."

"Yes, but chocolate is good for morale, _S’thora_." Merendith sets the dessert on the table, behind D’nila. "Except for the part where you’re not allowed to have any."

 _Anyone who has ever said that Andorians appear generally non-threatening, and that their blue skin is lovely and calming, has obviously never met one,_ Starek thinks, raising both hands. "Hey, hey… I don’t _want_ any."

"Selov _-daeh_ , general opinion has three main parts, those who support our happy love-birds, those who think they’re a violation of the natural order, and those who think the video is a fake, released to discredit Sarek- _kiitha_." D’nila turns, sliding off the table at Selov’s feet, lowering her head and raising her arms, offering the interface plate to him.

"I _told_ you," Starek hisses to Spock, pointing at D’nila, as he recognises the gesture as proof of point, regarding the cultural context of his own reflexive use of the pose, the night they met.

At this point Tunor shuffles in, looking much the worse for wear. Selov is instantly solicitous, patting the sofa, assuming a sympathetic expression, and fixing a plate with the first slice of dessert-bread.

"Was it bad, _telsu_?"

The more soberly-garbed Vulcan shakes his head. "Why I of all _suvel nahan po’Surak_ ever suggested we have a child -"

"Now, now. Have some of this lovely dessert." Tunor gives the _shihvek-kap_ a look that suggests he’d like to bury his face in it before composedly retrieving his eating utensils.

Starek raises an eyebrow at Spock. "No kids. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the last ten days, it’s that they are more trouble than I feel the need to deal with. Myself included."

He also looks up at D’nila, who is still frozen in place, waiting. With a sigh, he grabs the interface panel, tosses it onto the arm of the couch, and spins her off the table, and onto his lap. "Stop being a slave and be sociable."

She stretches back, nuzzling Starek’s ear and reaching up around the back of his head, just for appearances. Given another moment, she might issue a horrifically offensive statement on Starek’s proclivities, but Merendith cuts her off by throwing spoon down the front of her shirt.

D’nila squeals and leaps up, trying to shake out the spoon, while Stavret snickers quietly and Merendith pretends nothing at all has occurred. Starek looks up from where he is now sprawled across Spock, with a faint and apologetic smile.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to screw up the interactions of three people’s families. I swear I was only in it for a chance at Spock." Starek has no idea what to say, at this point — he is in the awkward position of not partaking of dessert, being responsible for disrupting the social norms of Vulcan, and getting trampled by an Orion with a cold spoon in her clothing.

"I think it best if we discuss our reproductive choices in private, tal-kam." Spock is too amused to be as severe as the situation warrants. "Furthermore, it is far too soon to be discussing anything of that nature."

And this is all he has time to say before his communicator goes off. His Starfleet communicator.

Spock does not so much stiffen as perform every subsequent action very slowly. He moves Starek off his lap, reaches into the pocket of his overtunic, and carefully withdraws the comm. Everyone else in the room goes silent as they see the familiar device.

"Spock here," he says rising, preparing to continue the call in the hallway. "Yes Sir. Yes I am near one now, but it is not-," and he turns back around. "Very well. Which channel? Yes, of course, Captain. Spock out."

He snaps the communicator shut.

"Stavret, tie that call down." Starek’s eyes are wide and unfocused, and his hands play with the air, as he scoots back out of range of the main screen. "If the man doesn’t care about the incoming transmission, then neither do we, but you make sure that everything leaving this room is encrypted."

Stavret doesn’t respond, except to hold out his hand for the interface plate, which D’nila hands to him, as he cocks his head at Merendith, and moves to where Starek waits, offscreen. Merendith follows, and the crew waits, together, to see if they will need to flee.

After a few moments, Stavret hands his PADD to D’nila, who nods. "We’re locked down, Spock _-daeh_ ," she announces. "Your comments are secure."

With a nod, he relays the code for the frequency and she dials it in.

The largest holo dissolves into static and then clears to reveal Christopher Pike, his square-jawed visage carefully neutral. "Junior Science Officer Spock."

"Captain." Spock is as rigid as Starek has ever seen.

"I have some good news for you, son," and his light eyes dance with feeling. "The Federation Council has determined that you are not a danger to Starfleet security. You are therefore reinstated, effectively immediately."

"Captain," Spock is as dubiously logical as ever, "This is indeed agreeable news. However, I fail to understand how the Council could have come to such a rapid decision. The news of my bonding is still spreading across federated space."

"Recording pause," says Pike hiking his chair forward and leaning over his desk. "Off-record, Mr. Spock, I can tell you that it the Council probably didn’t get a chance to vote. Instead the . . . suggestion seems to have originated with Starfleet Command and the higher-ups will just push it through afterwards.

"Looks like finally smartened up," Pike continues, "You’re too valuable to lose, and the way Starfleet treated you after the initial incident was a damn shame. You can rest assured that I was pounding on some doors when it got to me. Vulcans can say whatever they like — and likely they’ll be saying it for awhile yet — but I can tell you now that I’m sorry that interrogation and suspension ever happened. Also, congratulations on getting married. I wish you every success."

"Thank you, Captain." Spock looks faintly surprised, indicating he must actually be very surprised indeed.

"Resume recording. I’m sorry, Mr. Spock, I can’t go into detail about that. By the way, congratulations on your wedding. It’s a pleasure to see my officers settled down. Now, how soon can you make it back to us?"

"How soon!?" Starek was on his feet, before Stavret could stop him, stepping into the pane, one hand on Spock’s shoulder. "No sooner than a week from tomorrow. He _fvadt-esiu_ got married, this afternoon. To me. And I will not stand for anything less. Even _my_ people would give a man a little time to himself, under the circumstances. At a time like this, family must come before –"

Merendith lays Starek out with one shot to the head, and catches him on the way down. "Beg your pardon, Captain. I agree with his sentiments completely, but my _s’thora_ tends to talk too much for anyone’s health."

Stavret looks horrified as Merendith drops back out of view, cradling a semi-conscious Starek. He gives her quite the eye, before he starts tending to Starek to the best of his ability, while the doctor continues to watch the conversation. He won’t wake Starek, yet — he knows that this is not the time for the things that will come out of his mouth.

Unable to suitably reprimand Merendith, while his CO is onscreen, or Starek, while he is unconscious, Spock nonetheless gives the pair of them a withering look.

Assuming a tone of utmost resignation, Spock addresses the screen. "Captain, my new family extends greetings in in its own . . . unique manner."

Pike looks suitably taken aback. "You know what, Spock, I think you do need that week. Enjoy your honeymoon, son. Pike out."

Merendith spins a hypo in her fingers, before handing it to Stavret. He wraps an arm around Starek’s chest, holds him down, and applies the stimulant to the commander’s neck. Starek strains up, cursing in Romulan, for a few seconds, before his sense returns to him, and he collapses against Stavret, panting.

"You were getting long-winded and political, _S’thora_. Don’t do that in front of other people’s commanding officers." Merendith pats Starek roughly on the shoulder.

"Thanks, I think," Starek replies, rubbing his head. "No real damage?"

"She caught you. No damage to the furniture, nothing but a shot to the head, for you," Stavret offers, with a shrug. "You’ve got to get that under control, Starek _-saj_. One of these days, she’s going to give you a concussion if you don’t shut up."

Starek laughs and stands, wrapping his arms around Spock. "Three bruises, today, _k’diwa_. Want to go make it four, while these lovely folks finish dessert?"

Merendith looks up. "I only hit you twice."

"I know." Starek grins down, obscenely, and Stavret covers his face in self-defense and reaches for a slice of the dessert bread. He wonders how he has stayed relatively sober while living with Starek.

Spock eyes Starek hungrily, but can’t bring himself to shun respectable behavior so flagrantly. "At the appropriate time, _tal-kam_."

Selov lifts a brow at the pair of them. "Don’t be absurd, _taluhk ek’zerlar t’nash-veh_. We’re having our dessert. Now go have yours."

A slight bow is what Selov gets as an answer. That, and the delicious sight of watching Spock give his mate a resounding crack on the ass, propelling Starek a few steps towards the exit.

"I believe you heard our host, _yeht-veh_." His voice is light but his expression is quite predatory. "Now get going."

Starek squeaks, rather inappropriately for a man of his age and reputation, and with a look that is half offense and half desire, he intertwines his fingers with Spock’s and pulls him out of the room.

"Thank you," Stavret says to Selov, his voice thick with relief. "I don’t know how much more of that I could have taken, and still kept my dinner down."

D’nila laughs, bending over Stavret to get some dessert, and resting her breasts rather intentionally atop his head. "You never have any fun, do you, Stavret?"

Merendith covers her mouth and chokes back a laugh, as Stavret nearly matches the Orion in skin-tone.

"I have plenty of fun, D’nila! Just not … are you seriously … Mere _-daeh_!" Stavret’s face is frozen in shock and horror. It’s not that D’nila isn’t appealing, it’s just that she’s Orion. And they’re in public.

"D’nila- _kai_! Not in front of the Vulcans!" Merendith reproves, from behind her hand, looking far too amused at the situation.

"Awww." D’nila sits, leaning back against the edge of the couch, with her dessert. "Selov _-daeh _ doesn’t mind it, do you, _eaha-hwi_?"

"Certainly not, my dear. As I said, we so rarely have guests."

"And I," says Tunor, "with the help of this extraordinary dessert, may forget this evening entirely. Let us raise a toast," and hazy-eyed, he looks dubiously at his fork "a . . . bread. To Spock and Starek!"

Stavret raises a slice of his own. "To soundproofing the commander’s quarters!"

"To finally getting someone on that ship with some damned sense!" Merendith gripes, knocking her wrist against Stavret’s, dessert held aloft.

"To new toys!" D’nila cheers, dripping chocolate on Stavret.

A surprisingly clear "Blighted ass-barge! Spock, are you seriously — I thought — Wait!" can be heard, echoing through the halls, in Starek’s voice, followed by a few clumsy thumps and the sound of a closing door.


End file.
